Til Death Do Us Part

46

“It’s new. Do you like it?” I stand away from the counter and give her a little twirl, beaming with the adoring way she appraises me.

“Beautiful as always. You’re such a ray of sunshine in this place. I wish that one would learn she has a figure she could show off. Might have nabbed a husband by now if she wore a dress once in a while.” She throws her daughter the side-eye and gets an eyeroll in response. The usual bickering between them because she feels like her twenty-five-year-old should be settled down already.

“Hey… if I wanted a man, there’s a few who are interested. I’m following Greta’s example and focusing on making myself happy and dressing how I want.”

“While sweating in jeans in summer.” I point out and duck as she throws a scrunched-up paper bag at me.

“Says the woman who evades Tom Fletcher at all costs while he’s hands down the hottest man on the island.”

We draw one another sarcastic glares and then laugh. Having this same non-argument many times over the months.

“No, no, no! You don’t want a fisherman as a long-term love. It’s a hard and dangerous life, and he’s at sea more than he’s home. It can be lonely. Trust me. I lost my first husband to that moody b***h out there. She can turn in the blink of an eye.” She nods at our glass-fronted ocean view, and I’m inclined to agree. The village is still recovering from two deaths last autumn when a storm took down one of our biggest vessels and two husbands in the process. It’s still a raw topic even now, months later.

“Talking of which, we got a red weather warning. Tonight, by eight pm. Button-down the hatches for a tropical storm that’s eating up the coast.” Amber warns me and pulls my attention to her. “Some reports from last night are that a couple of hundred miles away, it devastated an entire island and destroyed half their tuna fleet.

“It’s the sunniest and calmest of days, are you sure?” Sometimes, it is hard to understand how nature can turn so deadly without warning.

“Yup, Stan himself told me when he came in for his breakfast rolls.” Stan is our resident coastguard contact who mans our little lighthouse out on the rocky end of the west shore. If we ever need weather reports, he’s the one in the know. If he says a storm is coming, we listen.

“There are some new boats already coming in to shelter overnight. I heard all the cruisers and pleasure boats had been told to maroon at the nearest harbors they could find before sun down. It’s to be that bad. So, the village will get some more foot traffic anyway.” Mauve, Amber’s mom, chimes in with a tone of worry and seriousness, and I nod. It’s not the first time we have been a haven to yachts and cruise boats. We have a pretty substantial harbor, and we’re a good location for nearby hobby sailors.

“Well, if any pull up with empty stomachs and cash to spend, send them our way. The more, the merrier. We could use a good summer for the piggy bank padding. Make the most of a bad night.”

“Will do. Here.” Amber hands over my perfectly packed crates over the top of the counter, and I take the weight, not even flinching at the heaviness anymore. This has become a daily trip. Living here has been better than the gym I spent thousands on for membership fees. I’m probably in the best physical shape of my life from just existing and surviving island life. The last time I put makeup on my face was the Christmas dance, and before that, well, probably the Christmas before.

“Come up at some point tonight and try my new summer cold noodle soup. Asian inspired. It’s delicious. Greta has put it on the menu.” I part ways, using my ass to butt the door for my exit and smile at my ladies as Amber jots down our amount to be added to our tab and waves me away. I know they’ll pop up to try it, always supportive of my cooking skills while I take classes, and try to be more help to Greta. However, my skills have been put to better use in making the island profitable.

I turn, facing up into the sun as I get outside and let the door swing shut. I close my eyes for a second to savor it before another busy day starts. Enjoying its warmth and inhaling slowly.

We’ve been crazy hectic this past few weeks with all the tourists coming in. Between starting social media pages, YouTube for the locals to upload to, boosting the quaintness of the island, and pushing for upgrades and restyling overall. We organize tour stops and even have some of our own boats run a ferry on day visitation to the nearest mainland. We’re doing better financially as a whole.

We built a community hall, fixed up some of the worst buildings, and branded ourselves with a village persona that made it a place where families like to stop by. The hotel is now booked out all season long, and we give island tours and specialized activities in parts that were barren land before. Camping, hunting, trail walks, quad adventures, you name it. We came together and used what we had to build something more.

I’ve put all my expertise in running a profitable business into improving our lives without funding, and it's finally starting to get there. Keeping my face out of the limelight and experiencing pride to see my surroundings flourish with all the hard work I poured into when I started to need distractions from my past life. We never had the incoming traffic in such amounts before this season started, so it’s proof it’s working. I feel like I finally put us on the map and brought in a whole new possibility of helping us grow. The islanders are sticking to my plans and can see I was right to commercialize this place for themselves.

“Anna, do you need help with those?” Tom’s voice comes my way and snaps me out of my daydreaming. I blink awkwardly to readjust to the sun, while inwardly, the wall comes up, and my stomach sinks.

“Nope. Doing fine.” I rebuff him with a quick reply and weak smile, even if I try to remain friendly and neutral, and dive sideways to head for the path back to the shack. I hate when he dive bombs me like this, and I feel like a deer in the headlights. Instantly nervous and scared and look for the nearest escape route.

Tom’s dressed in his sea-faring gear and still has his vest on, clearly stopping whatever he’s doing to come to offer me help. He must have spotted me languishing under the rays and come over. I feel bad about always running a mile when he appears, but I don’t want to give him wrong signals and encourage his interest in me.

“If you’re sure?” As I walk at speed, he calls after me and can’t even throw a wave back at him as a parting shot because these crates need both hands.

“I’m sure.” I singsong airily, trying not to be cold and impolite, and don’t look back at all. Hating that I can still be this standoffish with certain people, and I know he’s done nothing wrong. Always the perfect gentleman. Most women would do anything to have his attention, yet here I am, pushing it away and constantly rejecting him.

I may have healed in so many ways with Greta’s undying love and support, but I still wear this damned ring under my clothes and around my neck, and I’m still not at that point where I can take it off.