The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner

by Heidi Hostetter

  When the light changed, Jill continued on her way, relying on her car’s GPS to guide her to the motel. She might not have found her way otherwise, especially in the dark. She’d only been to the shore a few times and Marc had driven while she napped. She came to a narrow bridge and slowed the car to cross the inlet, hearing her tires hum against the metal grating. On the far side, fishing trawlers had docked for the night, and Jill could hear water slapping against the hulls. The air shifted as she drew closer to the ocean. It was thicker and threaded with the scents of the shore, a muddy low tide, salty air, woodsmoke and fall.

  The website for the Dewberry Beach Motor Lodge described the property as secluded, which was fine with Jill. She hadn’t planned to walk along the beach, and she didn’t want anything from the shops in town. The pictures provided online looked basic, not even close to the luxury Jill had grown accustomed to, but even that didn’t matter. She didn’t plan to stay long.

  “You have arrived at your destination.”

  Jill stopped the car and switched on her high beams, stunned. There had to be a mistake, a terrible mistake.

  The property in front of her—the one her GPS insisted was the motel—had been abandoned, and from the look of it, for a long time. The asphalt in the parking lot was buckled, leaving potholes big enough to destroy the undercarriage of anyone stupid enough to drive through. The lawn was weedy and overgrown, probably a haven for vermin, and a rusty chain-link fence circled what Jill imagined had once been a pool deck. The pool itself had been drained, the last bit of water a stagnant green. In the corner was a stack of twisted lounge chairs, rusting into dust.

  But the worst thing was the structure itself, the place Jill had assumed she’d be spending the night. The motel was not one building but three. Three small cabins that could be generously described as “chilling.” On one, the front door was missing entirely, and Jill didn’t want to imagine what lurked inside. Another seemed to have no roof at all, just a gaping hole covered loosely with a blue tarp that flapped in the wind. The third cabin seemed intact but not inhabitable. The front windows were cracked, and the moldy curtains hung in tatters.

  Jill stared at the property in front of her, open-mouthed. The motel’s website had taken her reservation, though not her payment, which was something at least. But she had a plan, a carefully constructed plan that included staying at this motel. Of course she wouldn’t now. She’d seen motels in horror movies that were more welcoming. And because the Dewberry Beach Motor Lodge was the only motel in town, there was only one place left for her to stay.

  She closed the windows and put her car in gear. It was late and this place was creepy so the last thing she wanted to do was linger. Before she drove away, she tapped in the address for the house into her GPS. It wouldn’t be so bad, staying at that house, would it?

  She could manage a night or two.

  A five-minute drive put her back on the main road where she picked up Route 35 to Dewberry Beach. Closer to town, the road narrowed from four lanes to two. As she slowed, she noticed the scenery had changed, the feel more inviting—the cottages cedar-shingled with wide front porches set with chairs for neighbors and friends. The homes were decorated for Halloween too. Pumpkins lined the front steps, and cobwebs stretched across the shrubbery. One house had arranged a scarecrow, wearing fishing waders and a pirate hat, sitting in a chair with his arm extended as if he were waving to the neighbors.

  It was unexpected, the idea that a shore town didn’t shut down during the off-season. Jill has assumed it would. Most of the properties in the Hamptons did, and Jill couldn’t think of one instance they’d visited this town outside of summer. And hadn’t Marc routinely shuttered the Dewberry Beach house for the winter, even hiring a company that specialized in winterizing summer homes? They brought in the outdoor furniture and stored it, unplugged appliances and cleared the house of unwrapped food. It was a full weekend job, and when they were finished, they set the house alarms and locked the door behind them.

  The road to the house wound through the little town, and Jill slowed even more. Old, sturdy trees lined the street, stretching their branches to meet overhead. The canopy above the street was striking, and Jill felt as if she were traveling through a tunnel, with the warm glow of streetlamps lighting her way. Jill slowed the car almost to a full stop just to take it in. The sight would be even better in the daylight, with the sun shining through a veil of fall color, and Jill made a mental note to notice it on her way out of town.

  She continued to the house. As she got closer to the ocean, she smelled the sea air and the scenery changed once again. The road was dusted with gritty beach sand that crunched under Jill’s tires. Here, front gardens were filled with plants that didn’t mind a bit of ocean spray. Jill recognized stately clusters of beach grass, scrubs of sea lavender, and hardy climbing roses. All of it conjured memories of summer, reminding Jill of Aunt Sarah.

  Jill didn’t recall any of this from previous trips. With Marc, the trips to Dewberry had been perfunctory and filled with purpose—a quick party to host, clients to meet. She and Marc arrived together and left immediately afterward, so lingering wasn’t part of the plan. She’d never seen the town up close, and she was surprised, now, at how idyllic it appeared.

  But the town of Dewberry Beach was small and the drive through it was short.

  “You have arrived at your destination.”

  Jill stared at the house in front of her, looming like a black monolith against the gray horizon, and her heart sank. It was by far the biggest house around, almost like an office building in a neighborhood. It wasn’t at all charming and wasn’t intended to be. With three floors, nine bedrooms and six bathrooms, it was meant to impress weekend guests. Worse was that it had a contrived nautical theme that Jill had always found off-putting. The exterior was painted a storm-cloud gray with crisp white trim because the designer has liked the color combination. And the shiny black shutters, meant to be protection against ocean storms, were purely decorative and didn’t latch. The oversized entrance was flanked with a pair of huge gas lanterns that a designer in New York had decided fit the theme and so had ordered from a catalog. According to papers found in Marc’s office, landscaping on the property was meant to look “beachy,” but it didn’t look that way to her. The plants brought in were tropical, not native, and the stones in the dry bed had been machine tumbled before being cemented in place. Around the back were two outdoor decks that faced the ocean, a rooftop patio, and a three-car garage.

  Marc’s designs had borrowed heavily from massive summer homes in the Hamptons. But what worked in East Hampton didn’t work in Dewberry Beach, a fact that seemed to surprise everyone on Marc’s staff.

  Resigned, Jill pulled her car into the side driveway and slipped into the garage. She clicked the button to close the door behind her and listened as it sealed shut. This space, like the closets in the Summit house master bedroom, was massive and opulent. The storage racks overhead groaned with bundles of deck furniture and umbrellas, set out as decoration in the summer but now wrapped in plastic and stored for the winter. Alongside were surfboards no one had used, beach chairs with tags still attached, hammocks no one had napped in, and a volleyball net for games no one had played—all perfect accessories for a curated summer.

  The garage air was sealed so tightly against the elements that it was impossible to smell or hear the ocean, just steps away. With a snort, Jill remembered that Uncle Barney’s old garage had been so weathered, and the siding so warped, that even the lightest breeze whistled through and ruffled your hair. But his was a working garage, filled with a jumble of bicycles in line for repair and projects he always “meant to get to.” It wasn’t anything like this.

  Jill unlocked the door and reset the alarm.

  She found the main electrical breaker and switched it on with a satisfying crack, then listened as the house awakened. She remembered the last time she’d been here, at that awful party Brittney had arranged. That woman had positioned herse
lf at the front entrance, greeting guests as if she were the one co-hosting with Marc instead of Jill. Which, given what Jill knew now, was closer to the truth.

  That was the reason Jill had booked the motel, the memories. This house was a reminder of Marc’s betrayal and the bruise was still healing. Most of the pictures Brittney sent had been taken here, and it was painful for Jill to be here. But it couldn’t be helped, not yet at least. Tomorrow she would stage the house, and the day after, she’d meet the agents to sign the listing agreement. They had already assured her the closing could be handled remotely, and Jill planned to do just that.

  The short hallway from the garage led to an oversized kitchen and on to the rest of the house. She paused briefly at the catering pantry for a bottle of mineral water and twisted the lid open. As she sipped, she viewed the house with a critical eye. The first floor was entirely open, designed to hold a hundred people in the summer. The windows, decks, and patio were arranged to allow a sweeping view of the ocean from every corner of the house. The furniture, upholstered in shades of beige, was supposed to present guests with an idea of beach sand. It all seemed utterly ridiculous to Jill, as far removed from an authentic beach house as one could get, especially the floating staircase leading guests to the decks on the second floor. No real beach house had a floating staircase.

  However, a hidden panel beside it activated the only feature of the house Jill actually liked. She stepped forward and pressed the button. As the motor whirred to life, the floor-to-ceiling curtains on the back wall parted, revealing an unobstructed view of the beach. She’d always loved the view from these windows: the sandy shore, the tide line, the rising waves, and the horizon, all in one uninterrupted sweep. Now it seemed almost surreal with the full moon glimmering on the sea. Jill stood for a long time watching the waves crest, then tumble toward the shore in a spray of white.

  Eventually, she returned to the kitchen. She assembled a simple meal from food left in the catering pantry: canned soup, fancy crackers, and a bit of dark chocolate. By the time she’d finished, it was late, but she felt better. The key to spending the next two days in this house, Jill reminded herself, was keeping busy.

  Venturing upstairs, she checked the guest bedrooms, making a mental tally of the bare mattresses that needed linens and the empty bathrooms that needed fresh towels and flowers. Last on her list was the master bedroom at the far end of the hall. As she made her way there, she wondered whether that room should be staged differently. It had a private deck, after all, and she should highlight it. Maybe she should make the most of it with a bistro table and chairs from the garage. A coffee service from the kitchen might be a nice touch too.

  She opened the door and froze.

  The bed had been slept in, the sheets and blankets twisted and thrown on the floor. The quilt lay in a heap, the pillows cast aside. Near the door was a discarded pile of Marc’s clothes—the sweater she’d gifted him for Christmas, the watch she’d had engraved for his birthday. Closer to the bed was a scrap of crimson lace, carelessly removed on the way to something more urgent. And in the center of the bed, an unmistakable imprint.

  Marc and Brittney had shared this bed.

  It stood now as they’d left it. That was Brittney’s crimson lace on the floor, Marc’s new watch by the bed. Standing at the scene of her husband’s betrayal, faced with evidence of what he’d done, felt very different than accepting a vague idea of it. Seeing it laid before her was a gut punch that no amount of steady breathing could soften. And this time Jill didn’t try. She left the room and stumbled down the stairs toward the garage and the safety of her car—her own car. There, she allowed the tears to come unchecked, mourning a man she’d loved with her whole heart. Letting go of a life she’d thought was perfect.

  After a long time, she made a place for herself in the back seat, using a sweater for a pillow and a jacket for a blanket, because she refused to sleep in that house.

  Fourteen

  Jill woke the following morning, her head groggy and her body cramped from the night spent in the back of her car. But she woke with purpose—her only goal was a strong cup of coffee and a completed to-do list. If she’d learned anything from the lost weekends on the couch watching home shows with Ellie, it was that staged houses sold faster than empty ones. Most of the tasks ahead of her would be mindless—piling fluffy towels in the bathrooms or plumping pillows on the guest-room beds. And if she could find them, scented candles on the dining table and a bowl of green apples in the kitchen.

  At some point, the master bedroom would need to be addressed, because she couldn’t leave it that way, but she couldn’t face it now. The main job she dreaded was hauling the outdoor furniture down from the storage racks and dragging it up to the deck. Everything was wrapped in plastic and stacked together like Tetris pieces so it would be difficult, physical work. But that was too much to even think about before coffee, so Jill headed back into the house.

  She left the garage, entered the house, and froze. She’d forgotten to close the curtains the night before and was rewarded with a magnificent sunrise. A pallet of watercolor pinks and blues washed across the horizon, and soft morning light spilled into the living room. The ocean turned a deep purple-blue as the light changed and the waves calmly rolled toward the shore.

  Jill stood rooted to the spot, gazing at the sea, completely captivated.

  Someday she would have her own cottage by the ocean, and it would be a modest house like Aunt Sarah and Uncle Barney’s. She’d spend her mornings puttering in the flower garden, with a sassy gray cat by her side. At the end of the day, she’d sit on an Adirondack chair angled toward the sea and watch the light fade. And she’d be happy.

  But that dream was years away and might never happen at all if Jill didn’t get to work. So she did. She vacuumed the rugs and mopped the floors, though neither seemed to need it. She made the beds, readied the bathrooms, but left the master for later. By noon, she’d finished folding the last towel and decided it was time for a break. The heavy teak furniture could stay where it was for now. She grabbed a baseball hat and sunglasses and headed for the beach.

  At the bottom of the beach stairs, Jill slipped off her shoes and dug her toes into the sand, pushing past the soft surface to find the coolness underneath. She rolled the cuffs of her jeans to her knee and continued to the water, feeling the satisfying give of the sand under her feet. This was a perfect fall day, blue sky and clear sun, a bit colder than it had appeared from inside the house. Though the midday sun shone as brightly as it could, a chilly breeze swept in from the ocean.

  Jill slipped on her sunglasses and turned toward the surf. On the off-season, especially this close to Halloween, Jill had expected the beach in this town to be deserted, but she was mistaken. It was true that it was different than it had been in August—the water wasn’t packed with swimmers, and the beach wasn’t strewn with towels or anchored with billowing umbrellas—but there was still activity. Near the water, two men walked along the tideline, one of them with a toddler perched happily on his shoulders. An older couple rested on a bench by the dunes, leaning into each other with a comfortable ease that comes from a long and happy marriage. Further ahead, a dog chased a driftwood stick into the waves, emerging a few minutes later with his prize, dripping and satisfied. And finally, in the tidepool near the jetty, a sandpiper played tag with the incoming tide.

  Jill breathed in the heady scent of the ocean and watched the wind lift the water into white caps. She saw a trio of surfers in wetsuits straddle their boards beyond the breaking waves and idly wondered if they were cold.

  It really was beautiful here. And while it was true that Jill didn’t like Marc’s house, she hoped that whoever bought it would appreciate the beauty of their surroundings.

  She turned to look at the house he’d constructed. One of its features was its unobstructed view of the water from almost every room. It was definitely a selling point and one of the things she planned to highlight at the listing meeting. Staring at th
e house now, she noticed for the first time how close the structure was to the property line. It hugged the dunes while the houses on either side—and along the beach—remained a respectful distance behind. Startled, Jill saw what the placement of Marc’s house meant for neighbors on either side: while he was rewarded with a sweeping ocean panorama, they were restricted to only a sliver of the ocean and a full view of Marc’s house.

  “What a horrible thing to do.” Jill glared at what Marc had created. “What an awful house.”

  “I’ll say it is.” The voice came from beside Jill. “Everyone in town hates that house.”

  Jill turned to see a woman standing next to her with a glare that matched Jill’s. An older woman, she had an apple-round face with pinked cheeks and was dressed for walking the beach. A brightly printed scarf, secured firmly under her chin, protected her hair from ocean gusts. The woman’s windbreaker pockets were lumpy with beach finds and Jill smiled at a memory. When Jill was younger, she and her cousins had orbited Aunt Sarah on evening beach walks, darting away to gather fragments of shells, slivers of driftwood, or nuggets of sea glass, then running back to share their treasures. No matter what they found, Aunt Sarah would marvel, then fold it into a tissue for safekeeping and slip it into her pocket to bring home. Jill wondered if the woman before her was gathering things for her own grandchildren.

  “Is that right?” Jill asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “You better believe it. You see that house over there? The little one?” She gestured to the house next door—a sweet little cottage overshadowed by Marc’s. In the yard, a woman in a wide-brimmed hat stood before a spindly tree.

  “Yes, sure I do.”

  “Nancy Pellish lives there. That’s her with the pruning shears—again.” The woman’s lips formed a tight frown. “She’s been trying for years to save that plum tree and it’s not going well.” She sighed as she shook her head. “Her grandfather brought that tree over from Italy and planted it in the yard to remind him of home. He tended it for years and it grew lush and tall. Every fall, he’s share the harvest with neighbors and friends—he even tried his hand at plum wine one year.”