The Girl I Used to Be by Heidi Hostetter (booksvooks .txt) 📗

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 herself 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