Pelican Bay Security

Chapter 2: Do I Have Enough Bail Money?

"I'm looking for Miller Street, but I missed my turn."

"There aren't many turns in Pelican Bay." The woman laughs and smiles back at me.

"No, but I've always used the big tree on Main."

"The storm in 2013 took her. Blocked half the street when she fell. Had to divert traffic around both city blocks. A mess it was."

2013? Has it been so long? I'd once vowed I'd come back to Pelican Bay every year. Of course, those promises were made before I met Mario. Before he swept me away into his lifestyle of fancy parties and what he called the high life. It's possible Mario didn't steal my innocent happiness. I merely left it here so many summers ago.

"I'm Pearl and this is Roland." The woman steps out extending her hand for a quick shake. "Where are you looking to get this late on a Sunday night?"

I wasn't aware seven thirty was late, but there's no way I'll argue the point with either of these two. "Gertie Thompson's house."

"Oh, sweetie. Gertie passed away about a month ago. Her house is empty." Pearl walks to me and lays a hand on my shoulder. Her fingers are at least ten degrees warmer than my cold skin.

"Yes, I know. I'm Tabitha, her great niece."

Pearl steps back. "We didn't see you at the funeral. The entire town came. Her sister visited."

"I wasn't able to make it. There were things in Oklahoma to finish up first." My head stays down so she won't spot my lie. I've never been a good liar.

It killed me to miss Gertie's funeral. My mother added to it with her own brand of grief over each flimsy explanation I gave her. I just couldn't find a plausible excuse for the large black eye and bruised cheek on the left side of my face. No one would believe I walked into a door.

Mario put me through crap over the years — late nights, lipstick stains on shirt collars, and even the occasional screaming match — but the shiner made me realize I needed to get out. Every piece that fell into the puzzle after that, I considered fate.

Roland wraps an arm around Pearl and leans forward a little, his eyes inspecting me, but for what I'm not sure. "You here to fix up her old place and sell it?"

"Nope. I'm here to stay."

"Long way from Oklahoma." Roland's eyes do another sweep of my face.

"That's the point, right?" I fake a laugh. "Pelican Bay holds a special place in my heart."

"I can't believe you're little Gertie's niece. You've grown." Pearl embraces me in a hug and I brace for a cheek pinch, but thankfully it never comes. I shiver against the warmth of her thick sweatshirt.

"You must get out of the cold." Pearl rubs her hands up and down my bare arms. "Can't have you sick on your first week here."

Roland gives me quick directions while Pearl continues fussing over me like a grandmother. It's somewhat nice. My mother has taken little interest in my well-being since I moved out at eighteen.

Pearl and Roland stand side by side and watch me drive out of the small parking lot. Pearl waves in my direction until I lose sight of her out the back window. The large woods to the north and south of Pelican Bay cut off most attempts at expansion over the years, and with Roland's directions I locate Gertie's house with ease this time.

The house acts as a beacon of happiness. I pull into the loose gravel driveway and shut my car off, but I don't get out. While Maine's coast is known for its large traditional built homes that grace magazine pages, inside the small towns and cities a different life is prominent. These homes are smaller and mostly Cape Cods or colonial kinds of buildings. Sturdy designs to keep the cold northern temperatures out while maintaining functionality for a large family.

Gertie never married or had the thirty kids many expected of her. She believed the last thing she needed was a man. Aunt Gertie wasn't one to listen when someone told her what to do. Today we'd look at her with pride and call her a feminist. Back then... well, they still probably called her a feminist, but they'd have said it with a sneer. Without the husband or large family to take care of, the small two-bedroom Cape Cod at the end of the driveway remained the perfect size for Aunt Gertie. And now me.

A cute little porch covers the front door, the white paint on the steps and railing flaking in certain areas. Too many harsh winters. The light peach color has all but faded to where the low light provided from the neighbor's front porch makes the house look white.

One thing hasn't changed since my time here. Gertie's flower beds overflow with every color bud imaginable, even this early in the spring. She purposely planted flowers to bloom in every season. Together we spent hours each summer pruning her beds so not a single weed remained. It's sad this is the last time I'll see it like this. Even with all of Gertie's teaching, I never picked up her green thumb. I doubt the meticulous landscaping will last a single summer under my care.

The cold seeps past the car windows and I jump out hopeful her heat works. The lawyer in Oklahoma gave me a single key after I signed the estate papers, but not much else in the way of directions on how to do this.

I left Mario the key to his McMansion on the kitchen counter before I drove out of town a week ago. Between my missing stuff, the key, and the simple note I left, I'm sure he'll get the hint on our breakup situation. Not a grown-up approach, but there wasn't another way.

The porch light is off, but with the streetlamp I have no problem inserting the key in the lock. I hold my breath for a moment before turning my wrist. It's a small moment, but it's a moment that's all mine. Finally.

I twist the key ready to start my new life and... nothing. It sticks. I try the knob, but the door doesn't budge.

Okay. No big deal.

It's possible this key works on the back door.

A cold breeze picks up as I leave the front porch, and I wrap my arms around myself as I walk to the back of the house. My first line of business needs to be unpacking my warm clothing even if it's April. I can't handle another one of these nights.

The overstuffed flower beds continue around the house stopping to give up a small section for the back stoop with an overhang to protect against rain and snow. I jam the key in the lock, no longer worried about the memories.

The key doesn't turn.

"Mother fucker," I say to no one but my shadow.

I don't have time to freak out unless I want to lose a toe to frostbite.

There's a small window to the side of the stoop. If I get the window lifted, I can lean over the rail and squeeze through the opening. I unlatch my hands from where they're tucked under my armpits, my thin long sleeve shirt completely worthless as the temperature continues to drop. My cold fingertips are numb, but I get a decent grip on the painted window base and jerk.

The window barely budges, the last paint job creating an almost indestructible seal. I jerk hard again and this time the paint releases with a cracking sound. It will take a few more tries to get the window up high enough, but my progress keeps me going.

"Freeze," a harsh voice demands from the darkness behind me.