Charlotte nods and rests her shoulders back against the seat. “Well, then I suppose there is a lot of catching up to do.”
I cringe at the thought of catching up with a family member who hasn’t tried at all to get to know me. I’m dreading every bit of my new situation, but I know better than to act on my thoughts. My mother’s death shocked us all. I should be grateful that my grandmother offered to take me in, but that feeling is lost beneath the grief that still rocks my soul.
We enter the subdivision, if one can even call it that. Houses the size of museums sit on either side of the winding street, complete with marble drives, intricate stone carvings, and large columns. The three-decades-old community appears to be in immaculate condition. My stomach turns as discomfort snakes through me. I do not belong here.
We pull into the rounded drive at the back corner of the street, where the biggest house of them all looms before us. My jaw drops, and I look at Charlotte, waiting for her to start laughing and tell me that this is all one big joke. This cannot be my grandmother’s home. Amusement is not what I find on her face.
“Welcome to Summer Manor, Katrina.” Charlotte beams. “You’re home.”
I register that word again with a shudder. It rattles me now more than when she said it earlier. Home. This is not my home.
I vaguely remember my mom mentioning something of my grandmother’s wealth, but this is not what I pictured.
“I didn’t realize…” The sight of the towering Greek-structured villa before me silences me.
“Katrina?”
The formality of Charlotte enunciating my name snaps me out of my trance, and I examine her for the first time since meeting her. She is beautiful—around my mother’s age, I think—with a nice figure, flawless skin, perfect hair, and shining light-blue eyes.
I pinch out the best smile I can muster under the circumstances. She really has been kind to me. “You can call me Kat, you know. No one really calls me by my full name.”
Charlotte nods, showing she is all too willing to oblige. “Of course. Kat, it is.” She smiles and turns off the car. “Leave your things. I’ll have them brought up shortly.”
I step out of the car. The peaceful sound of a water fountain comes from the base of the steps, where a rock marble statue of Apollo and Daphne stands at its center. My breath catches in my throat at the beautifully depicted moment in time when Apollo catches up to the river god’s daughter and she transforms into a laurel tree.
Greek mythology was the only part of English class that intrigued me, and I remember their story vividly. A revengeful Eros fired one gold-tipped arrow at Apollo, making him fall helplessly in love with Daphne. Eros then fired a lead-tipped arrow at Daphne, making her impervious to Apollo’s love and indifferent to his advances. When Apollo pursued her, Daphne ran to her father, Peneus, and begged for his help. He obliged, using metamorphosis to transform her.
Everything about the statue brings the entire story to life in one glimpse. The way Apollo’s arm circles Daphne’s torso, yet touches nothing save for the bark of the laurel tree that’s sprouting between them. The way bark grows above the earth and forms around her, with her fingers morphing into branches that have leaves sprouting from them, all while her toes transform into roots. Even their arched bodies, flowing drapery, and facial expressions reveal Apollo’s surprise and Daphne’s horror in a moment frozen in time. It’s the most beautiful piece of artwork I think I’ve ever seen.
Breaking out of my trance, I follow Charlotte up the rounded marble steps, taking each one carefully as if not to disturb the stone at my feet. The home in front of me—or I should say mansion?—is bigger than the entire three-story apartment complex I lived in with my mom. Am I seriously going to live here?
All the while, Charlotte sounds like a tour director reading from cue cards, personalized for my arrival. She talks about a rock pier and a private beach where neighbors gather for festivities. I listen passively as I follow her up to the front doors. I expected something nice and luxurious, but not this. A shudder shakes through my body. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it. Not the ritzy neighborhood or meeting my grandmother who never could be bothered before now. I just want my small box of an apartment, my bitchy classmates, and my overprotective mom.
Charlotte unlocks the large double doors. The solid mahogany boasts what looks like handcrafted leaded glass and shiny brass door handles. Mesmerized by the elaborate knobs Charlotte uses to open both doors, I inhale sharply.
In the center of the circular foyer sits an elegant sculpted-glass table. A vase filled with white, blue, and yellow feathery flowers sits on the round top. We walk straight through and to a bright white room decorated with light-blue accents.
“This is the great room,” Charlotte gushes. “Your grandmother likes to have her tea here in the afternoon.”
Charlotte continues to speak, but my eyes are transfixed by a large set of windows that overlook a section of Tampa Bay. I’m drawn to them as I remember bits and pieces of memories my mom shared with me about her time here. I walk closer and stare out into the vast empty space before me. I take in the bay front, where the moon hangs high over the water’s reflection. For a split second, I forget why I’m here, then a wave of emotion hits me as I view the beachfront below.
It reminds me of the only story my mother told me about my father. About how they met. About how they fell in love. Before I have a chance to dive deeper into those memories, I hear Charlotte clear her throat.
“Do you like it?” Charlotte asks, hope filling her voice.
I search for the words, trying to decide how exactly one should reply to a question that sounds so simple. But my life feels anything but simple right now.
When I don’t respond, the excitement on her face slips into something more sympathetic. “I’ll give you the grand tour tomorrow. I imagine you must want to get some rest.”
I give a pinched smile, feeling somewhat guilty for not matching her emotion. “Actually, I’d like to take a walk on the beach.”
Charlotte’s brows fold in, revealing her disapproval. “But it’s late.”
I shrug. “I’ve been in a car all day, and I’m wide awake.”
Charlotte nods. “Well, all right then. Let me show you the best path.”
The second I reach the sand, there's a release inside me I know I’ve needed. I take a deep breath, sucking in the salty sea-blown air. My toes sink into the sand with each step, the tiny grains exfoliating my skin as I glide effortlessly toward the shore. It’s easy to lose myself to the gentle breeze, but that’s not really why I wanted to come out here.
I move blindly toward the water, peeling my black leggings and tank top from my body and tossing them aside. I free myself into the bay, like submerging myself in its depths will somehow wash away the pain and bring me closer to my mother. After all, this is where it all began.
My heart catches in my throat as I put all my energy into each stroke, all the while recalling the story my mom once told me about how she met my father. The first memory my mom, Grace, had was of when she woke up on the shore in Apollo Beach at sixteen years old. Right here, right in front of George and Rose Summer's home. Rose’s son, Paul, carried her inside.