Chapter 1
Molly Croft was sure she’d never had a worse task to do in her entire life. A long sigh escaped when she opened yet another crammed closet in her aunt’s house.
She’d already boxed up six—count them, six—sets of dinnerware. Enough glasses to allow an army to drink in style twice—if not three times. Enough silverware for her aunt to use a unique set each day for over a month.
Stacks of unopened boxes overflowed into the hallway from the two guest bedrooms. So many boxes that she couldn’t even get around in the rooms. She’d have to start at the door, open each box, deal with it, and move further in.
Why had her aunt thought she needed to keep every single thing that ever came through her doors? Molly didn’t remember the cottage being like this when she and her mother would come to Lighthouse Point on Belle Island and stay with Aunt Shannon each year. A month each summer and two weeks at Christmas.
Not that Aunt Shannon was really her aunt. She was her mother’s best friend. Well, she’d been her mother’s best friend from their grade school days until thirty years ago. Shannon and Regina. Inseparable until… they weren’t.
Suddenly, Molly couldn’t take it anymore. The stale air, the stacks of boxes, the memories that threatened to choke her. She walked over and threw open the French doors to the deck and stepped outside. The welcome sunshine rained down on her, and a fresh, salty breeze blew in from across the waves. She sucked it into her lungs, clearing out the stagnant cottage air. How long had the place been closed up like this?
This musty cottage was nothing like the bright, cheerful one she visited each year as a girl. She was about twelve when her mother and Shannon had a falling out. So the yearly trips abruptly ended. She hadn’t been back to the house on Belle Island since the day her mother made her pack up her bag and they’d left. The harsh crunch of the crushed seashell drive as they sped away still echoed in her ears.
Over the years, she’d wondered why Shannon never tried to contact her. After all, the dispute was between her mother and aunt. It hurt her feelings that Shannon had never contacted her. But it wasn’t like she was her real aunt. Not family. Though Shannon was the closest thing she had to family, except for her mother. Her mother had been an only child. Her grandparents were gone before Molly was born. Her father died when she was
a baby. So Shannon had become Aunt Shannon, and they seemed like family, acted like family. Spent Christmas together each year like family.
Oh, how she’d loved her. Shannon taught her how to put on makeup. Play the piano. She’d been an avid reader and introduced her to so many talented authors. And taught her to bake. She loved spending time in the kitchen with Shannon. Her mother hated cooking and baking and left them alone to their recipes.
But after that one huge argument—which her mother refused to talk about, so she still had no idea what it was about—she never heard from Shannon again. But then, she’d gotten busy herself with school and boys and college and then her career. And she’d never made the effort to come back and see Aunt Shannon either.
Shannon. She should just call her Shannon. No blood relation. But then… why had Shannon left this beach cottage to her? A person she hadn’t seen in over thirty years? It made no sense.
Another sigh escaped her, and she wasn’t the sighing type. She sank onto a weathered Adirondack chair and kicked off her shoes, leaning back and letting the sun soak through her. It had been cold with the weatherman predicting a storm that was supposed to dump a foot of snow after she left Denver early this morning. The warm weather in Florida was a welcome respite.
When she made plans to come here and clear out the house, she naively thought she’d get it all done in a week. That wasn’t going to happen. She brought her computer with her and thought she could get some work done during the day and sort out the house at night. But at this rate, it was going to take her precisely forever.
Not that she really had any plans. Not even for Christmas coming up in two weeks. Her mother was on a trip out of the country with Craig, her new serious boyfriend—so she claimed. Number three just this year. Molly hadn’t even told her mom she was coming to Belle Island. They never talked about their summers here. Ever. Shannon’s name was never mentioned. She hadn’t even gotten up the nerve to tell her mother that she’d inherited the house.
She closed her eyes, remembering her shock when she walked in this afternoon. The boxes. The piles of paperwork everywhere. She’d already planned to stay at the cottage, never dreaming it would be in this kind of shape, so she washed the sheets and
made up the bed in Shannon’s room. The only room a person could really walk through. Even the kitchen was piled with stacks on the table and barely enough room to get to the fridge, sink, and stove.
Thank goodness someone had come and cleaned out the fridge and threw out food that would spoil. But all the rest had been left up to her. And the enormity of the task loomed over her.
What had Shannon said in the letter the lawyer gave her? She’d left the cottage in a bit of a mess. Right. She’d been surprised that she still recognized Shannon’s swirling penmanship.
My Molly,
I’ve missed you so much over the years. You were like the daughter I never had. I’m sorry that the argument between your mother and me severed my relationship with you. I don’t blame you for being mad at me.
I want you to have the cottage. I hope you come often and stay and enjoy it. I know I left it in a bit of a mess. I’m sorry for that. I have all my affairs in order, filed in boxes, so settling my estate should be an easy matter for you.
Oh, and I left you a letter at the cottage. I’m sure you’ll see it. Please don’t hate me. I should have told you all those years ago. Maybe Regina has by now. I hope so. Please forgive me.
Enjoy the cottage and know that I always loved you.
Aunt Shannon
But she wasn’t mad at Shannon. She’d never been mad at her. She just never understood what happened.
But she hadn’t found any of the boxes Shannon mentioned, nor the letter, despite working almost non-stop since early afternoon.
She looked down the beach, staring at the lighthouse rising above the water. How she loved walking down to the lighthouse. Swimming in the salty water. Collecting shells. Such great memories.
Until they ended.She pushed off the chair, took one last look at the soothing waves brushing the shore, and headed back inside. After tugging a ladder over to the bookcase, she climbed up to the top shelf with a box in hand, intent on emptying the shelf. A book of poetry. She paused to read a few of the poems that were bookmarked. Then she grabbed The History of Lighthouse Point, complete with photos. Balancing the box on the shelf, she leafed through the book, seeing how the lighthouse had changed over the years. At this rate, it was going to take longer than forever to clear out Shannon’s house. She stretched her hand over to reach for another book, ...
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