“Lorene.” Angela placed the poker carefully on its stand, removing the temptation to use the tool as a weapon. “This is not your house anymore.”
Lorene placed her suitcase at Angela’s feet and blew past her. “Is there tea? I have a dreadful headache.”
Angela looked longingly at the poker. “No. Lorene. There’s no tea.” She followed her into the kitchen where Lorene began rifling through shelves and rearranging contents.
“Lorene! What are you doing here?”
She spun from the cabinet. “I spoke with Brice, of course. You’ve upset him. He may not be able to admit it, but you’ve hurt him.” She pressed a hand to the side of her perfectly coiffed hair. The heavily teased strands stood out from her pink scalp, thinner than Angela remembered. The blonde shade chosen to best cover the gray.
“Brice sent you?”
“Good heaven’s no. He’s far too proud to admit that you’ve gotten to him.”
Why were they discussing this as if they were talking about a lovers’ spat? Angela leaned toward the older woman. “We are divorced.” She said the words slowly. Meticulously. Enunciating every syllable.
“Nonsense. You’re having a midlife crisis. I know the signs. I had one myself years ago.” When she waved her hand, the giant stone on her finger caught the light. “You two simply need to kiss and make-up.”
“Ah. Kiss and make-up.” Was this really happening? No one in their right mind would suggest such stupidity. No one. Not even designer clad Lorene Baker. For an instant Angela hoped she was dreaming, and any minute she’d wake up and find herself once again alone in her house laughing hysterically about the nightmare she’d had. But Lorene’s patronizing look was all too real. Angela had been the butt of numerous ill-timed and cruel jokes during her marriage to Brice. Every flaw had been documented and presented to anyone and everyone willing to look down their noses at her. Even Angela’s fear of flying over the ocean had been laughed about and used as entertainment for vast numbers of dinner guests.
She’d been the scapegoat whenever anything went wrong. Ran out of wine, Angela hadn’t ordered enough. The poor quality of steaks? Angela knew nothing about choosing fine cuts of meat. Clothes. Shoes. Hair. Nothing was ever right. Nothing was ever good enough. If a blouse wasn’t the right shade for a skirt, one would think she’d worn a bathrobe to the dinner party.
Throw her out. A voice in her head urged. Throw the mean-spirited piece of work out right now. Angela envisioned doing so. She could imagine it in glorious Technicolor. Grabbing her ex-mother-in-law and physically removing her from the premises. Just as she was getting ready to give Lorene a final verbal ultimatum, Angela remembered something.
She remembered her Gran. She remembered how Gran would tell her people like Lorene were a dime a dozen. They judged their own worth by how worthless they could make others feel. They were the small ones, the little bits of nothing making others as miserable as they felt. The strong, the shimmering stars of the world stood tall in the face of such attacks. Those who were strong enough not to retaliate were the real diamonds. You’re a diamond, Angela. Don’t stoop to dirt’s level.
Angela turned from Lorene. “You can stay one night. It’s late and I don’t want to send you back out. But in the morning, I’m afraid you’ll have to find somewhere else to stay or just go on home. You won’t see me the rest of the evening. I’ll be in my room.”
Lorene raised a hand. “Actually, I sleep best in the master suite. I just never took it from Brice because of his back trouble.”
Angela bit her tongue. But you’ll gladly take it from me. Ha. Back trouble. The affliction only arose when Brice was presented with a task he didn’t want to perform. Angela grabbed the door frame for support. “You will manage fine in the magnolia room. The linens are fresh. Good night, Lorene. By morning, I hope you’ll accept that Brice and I have irreconcilable differences. Our marriage is over.”
Dreams were strange little creatures. Having just enough reality in them to cause one to question everything they’d done. When Angela woke to a stiff neck and a headache, she blamed the dreams, and the ex-mother-in-law in the nearby room. She’d stayed in bed an hour longer than usual, hoping beyond hope that Lorene had come to her senses and left.
Rather than trek downstairs to face the monster, Angela slipped into her jogging clothes, a sports bra, and her running shoes. She dragged her mass of hair into a ponytail. That didn’t help with the headache.
Silently she crept down the back stairs after pausing on the landing to see if she heard commotion in the kitchen. She didn’t, so Angela tiptoed down the remaining steps and slinked through the back door. The irony of sneaking around one’s house when one lived alone? Not lost on her.
She grumbled as she stretched, even though a glorious beachline beckoned. The sky was a golden shade of morning and it refused to allow her to remain in a foul mood. Good. She detested being grumpy. Braxton and Bryan had always called her SpongeBob. Wake up happy and just get happier as the day goes on. Guilty as charged, she supposed. Why be grouchy in the mornings when happy was ready and waiting for you?
Mornings were why she’d taken up jogging again. Brice was a terror in the mornings. Grumbling and complaining about everything. She’d tired of it to the point of leaving the house as soon as he’d stepped into the shower. Her morning runs became her sanctuary. They’d become her lifeblood.
She headed down Wishing Beach in a comfortable jog, casting a glance to the long ancient banyan tree that stood guard over the mystical shoreline. Was it really mystical? She didn’t know. She’d made wishes at Wishing Beach since she was a little girl, but who knew if a person made their own luck or if magic places like this beach poured out fate. Not her.
The place was desolate save for the occasional ocean offering that had washed up with the tide. Coconuts, seashells, and a few plastic drink bottles littered the pristine beach. She had just left Millionaire’s cove and was jogging along where the houses were still elaborate but much more modest than on her cove. Angela lifted her gaze to the gleaming white house—the fourth one down past her edge of the cove. Apprehension threaded its way up her spine, but she tamped it down. Sea spray hit her cheeks as if rising to give her a kiss. Angela tasted salt on her lips.
It’s not that the white house was particularly distressing, it was simply that she’d come this way twice, noticed the man on the back patio, waved, and been stunned by the way he’d ignored her.
Okay, so some of the full-timers disliked sharing their precious beach with the tourists, but Angela lived here. A full-timer. Besides, his behavior was just rude, and she’d purposed in her heart not to let people treat her with rudeness—like she could really control that.
As she neared, she watched him step out onto his patio and sit down. He wore dark pants, a red T-shirt, and he was barefoot. He held a cup of coffee in one hand. When Angela knew she was in his field of vision, she threw a smile and a big wave in his direction. She’d holler a greeting, but he’d never hear it from this distance over the surf. If she wanted to get his attention, she’d have to trek into his yard—something she’d never do even though they were likely the only two people staying on this stretch of beach right now. The people who owned houses on Millionaires Cove came and went frequently. Summers, winters, every single holiday. Even Senator Perry and his family. But beyond the cove where more modest houses rested, inhabitants were few except during the winter months.