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NOT TOO MUCH FARTHER,” THE man driving says as he turns the car off the main drag. “The beach cottage is at the end of that dirt road there.”
The woman beside him leans forward and looks closely out the windshield. She seems doubtful—as though not believing this dirt path winding through a forest will ever bring them to a beach.
“This is it?” she asks from the passenger seat. She lifts her tortoise-shell sunglasses to the top of her head. “Are you sure this is the right place, Mack? I mean, it’s all woods and trees.” She holds onto the door and looks out her window. Leafy branches brush close. A faded Dead End sign is nailed into the bark on one of those trees.
“Avery,” Mack tells her. There’s a casual look to him. He’s been driving with his window down, so his dark hair is windblown. A shadow of whiskers covers his face, too. His left arm is crooked on that open window as he lightly holds the steering wheel. “I’ve been coming here every summer of my life. So that’s thirty-four summers now. I think I know where my family’s beach cottage is.”
But every time they round a bend in the road, Avery deflates a little more. It’s as though she expects each bend to open to a coastal vista. And to summer cottages. Instead, they only drive deeper into woods. Towering trees lining the roadside create a dark canopy in the midday sunlight. Dappled shadows fall on the dirt road as the car maneuvers each curve twisting left, or right, into some thick forest obscuring the summer day’s lightness. There’s another tree-mounted sign—this one black with red letters declaring, No Trespassing.
“It’s just that I pictured our honeymoon different than … this,” Avery softly explains. “I thought it would be more like an exclusive resort.”
“And I thought we agreed. You wanted all the bells and whistles at our wedding. The photo booth. And ice sculpture. The choreographer we hired for the surprise wedding party dance. The deluxe lighting package. And did we really need miniature maracas for wedding favors?”
“You used them, didn’t you, Mack Martinelli? On the dance floor?”
“Fair enough, I did. But let’s also not forget your big three-oh birthday party last month—which put a huge dent in our budget.”
“Hey, wait. I turned thirty, true. But I also made that girls’ weekend Vermont birthday getaway my bachelorette party!”
Mack glances over at Avery. “Regardless,” he says, taking yet another dark curve along the wooded road. “Our sizable wedding budget trimmed the honeymoon budget to this.” Mack nods toward the road.
“This.” Avery tucks her sandy blonde hair behind an ear and sits back with a sigh—then leans away from the door when wayward underbrush sweeps against the car. “I guess I was hoping for something … more. Especially since our honeymoon is just forty minutes from home. Never mind a tropical island, we’re not even leaving Connecticut.”
“Oh, believe me. It’ll feel like we did. As soon as we get there.”
They’re quiet then. Their vehicle, a muscle car of some sort, purrs with a low rumble along the rutted dirt road. Clouds of dust rise around the car’s tires. The forest blocking the sun keeps Avery and Mack in vague darkness. The only hint that it’s actually daytime is the twittering birdsong.
Until suddenly they round one last curve in the road—and the world opens up.
There, on the left, an expansive lawn leads to an old painted house. Avery sits straighter as the forest-lined dirt road changes. The sky lightens now, too, up ahead. The more Mack drives, the more blue sky comes into view. And as the sky gets lighter, that sunshine falls on cottages. Not many, just a few shingled homes nestled on large manicured lawns. Manicured lawns with shady trees.
But the view beyond each shingled cottage is all that matters. All that might get you to take a deep, slow breath. That view is obviously the draw of this place. The blue waters of Long Island Sound reach to a far horizon framed only by wisps of white clouds.
“Here we are,” Mack says, turning into a driveway that’s nothing more than packed-down lawn. Their black two-door coupe shifts over gentle heaves in the ground before coming to a stop. “And it’s only Sunday, so we’ll have a nice, long beach week.”
In the bright sunlight, Avery drops her sunglasses back onto her face. Leaning low to look out Mack’s window, she sees the cottage there. It’s a rambling bungalow-style one-story, with a sloped roof. The weathered silver shingles look like they’ve been brushed with the very salt of the sea. Slate-blue trim frames paned windows. There are beach roses heavy with pink blossoms and green leaves climbing up a trellis beside one of those windows. On the side of the cottage, there’s a deck. And in the front, a flower garden grows around a twisted driftwood log that’s aged to shades of gray and copper.
“Your cottage is really pretty. But I don’t know, Mack,” Avery says as she opens the car door and gets out. Reaching into the back for her luggage, she looks over the seat at him. “At least we have a full itinerary planned, so we’re not just sitting on sand chairs for seven days.”
* * *
“I’m famished!” Avery settles into her seat at the stately Old Lyme Inn that evening. She wears a cropped white blazer over a navy top and faded jeans. A chunky beaded gold necklace loops around her neck. “Unpacking gives me such an appetite, every time.”
“The salt air does it for me,” Mack muses. After cuffing the sleeves of his button-down, he picks up a menu. “Let’s see what we want to eat.”
They sit at a side table in the historic inn’s dining room. Tall paned windows are trimmed in wide sage molding; soft evening sunlight shines on the white-oak floor; a bottle of wine is on their table. As they browse the menus, there’s something more, too, in the hushed room. There’s chatter, nervous chatter, coming from a few patrons. They’re sitting on upholstered stools at the wooden bar just across the room.
Heard the governor might issue stay-at-home orders.
Trying to fight the pandemic.
Connecticut cases rising.
Hospitalizations up.
Virus spreading.
But shut down the whole state?
Things aren’t looking too good.
With an ear tuned to the dire words, Mack and Avery occasionally look at each other over their menus until their waiter approaches.
“Evening, folks. What can I get you tonight?” he asks.
Mack motions to Avery.
“I’ll have the …” She drags a finger down the menu. “Lobster ravioli,” she says with a nod. “And the house salad.”
“Very good. And you, sir?”
“Filet mignon for me.”
“How would you like that cooked?”
“Medium rare. With the baked potato, and …” Mack sets down the menu, then motions the waiter closer. “Can I ask you something?”
“Absolutely.”
“What’s going on? The pandemic’s gotten that serious?” Mack asks.
“It’s all anyone’s talking about these days.” The waiter glances over at the bar customers. “Where’ve you been?”
“Out of the loop, apparently,” Mack admits.