ALSO BY JOANNE DEMAIO

  The Seaside Saga

  Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans

  The Denim Blue Sea

  Beach Blues

  Beach Breeze

  The Beach Inn

  Beach Bliss

  Castaway Cottage

  Night Beach

  Little Beach Bungalow

  Every Summer

  Salt Air Secrets

  Stony Point Summer

  –And More Seaside Saga Books–

  Summer Standalone Novels

  True Blend

  Whole Latte Life

  Winter Novels

  Eighteen Winters

  First Flurries

  Cardinal Cabin

  Snow Deer and Cocoa Cheer

  Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes

  Novella

  The Beach Cottage

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Please Note

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, now known or hereinafter invented, without express written permission of the copyright owner.

  Copyright © 2020 Joanne DeMaio

  All rights reserved.

  Joannedemaio.com

  To Mary

  For telling me to write this story,

  my way.

  Table of Contents

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  The Seaside Saga

  About the Author

  one

  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.

  “We actually just got married. Yesterday,” Avery says with a distracted glance at the bar, too.

  “Well now. That explains it—you’ve been … preoccupied?” their waiter asks.

  “To say the least,” Avery agrees. “Showers, parties. The rehearsal, and wedding. It’s been a whirlwind. We just arrived today for our honeymoon.”

  “Congratulations, you two. So you’re booked here at the inn?” The waiter flips his order pad closed.

  “No. No, we just stopped in for dinner,” Mack tells him. “Actually staying at Hatchett’s Point, down the road a ways.”



  “Ah, nice place, right here in Old Lyme. So … you’re not from around these parts?” the waiter asks.

  “Oh, we are,” Mack says. “Live just inland, outside of Hartford. Keeping the honeymoon local, though.”

  “You work local, too?”

  “We do,” Avery tells the waiter as she hands him back their menus. “I design the window displays for a nearby shopping plaza.” She turns to Mack. “And my husband’s family owns Martinelli Upholstering.”

  “That’s a familiar name,” the waiter says as he tucks their menus beneath an arm. “I’ve heard you do great work.”

  “Appreciate that,” Mack tells him. “But right now, I’m worried about that pandemic more than anything else.”

  “I hear you. Scary stuff, especially if the state closes down.” The waiter gives a slight salute as he heads toward the kitchen with their orders. “Hope you’re well-stocked with supplies,” he calls back over his shoulder.

  * * *

  By the time they get to the supermarket after dinner, the sun’s gone down. Mack grabs a shopping cart and wheels it through the doors. But when they turn to the produce aisle, he stops.

  “You should get another carriage,” he tells Avery.

  Avery comes up beside him and brushes her fingers across his whiskered jaw. “Are you sure? Maybe you’re overreacting.”

  All Mack has to do is nod to the empty shelves. Only shreds of lettuce are left. And a few scattered tomatoes. A half-dozen zucchinis, which he grabs. Some berries and nectarines. “Get another carriage,” he tells Avery again, his voice lower this time.

  When she returns, they slowly walk up and down the aisles. The lighting is harsh at this nighttime hour. The shelves, half empty.

  “This is so weird,” Avery softly says, looking back over her shoulder. “Is this really happening? The way everything’s picked over, and the way the store’s so quiet, it’s like the world’s coming to an end.”

  Mack looks back, too. Then he keeps walking. He tosses in anything they might need. Some canned goods. Breads they can freeze. Avery fills her cart with paper products. She adds cleaning sprays and disposable gloves—what’s left of them, anyway.

  “Really?” Mack asks. “Disposable gloves?”

  Avery nods toward two women wearing blue latex gloves while shopping. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she whispers in the oddly hushed store.

  “Let’s plan out for the week, then. We’ll have to grab food for dinners. Maybe some hamburger patties. A chicken.”

  “But we have reservations. And at some of the nicest restaurants!” Avery insists from behind Mack. “Don’t you think we’ll be all set? And your family filled the fridge for us.”

  Mack watches an older couple hurry past. Their steps are quick; the woman clutches a long list. “I don’t know, Avery.” He looks back at her pushing her carriage. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this. We’re here, so it can’t hurt to stock up.”

  Soon the groceries—readymade salads, salmon fillets, bakery rolls—are bagged and loaded into the car trunk. But driving back to the beach cottage, Avery and Mack say little. Instead, Mack tunes the radio to a local station. They listen to the latest news—hearing some imminence in the announcer’s tone.

  When Mack turns the car onto the long dirt road leading to the cottage, the forest seems more ominous than ever. Trees throw black shadows in the headlight illumination. A raccoon plods across the road. The car engine rumbles as the vehicle shifts and sways on heaves in the packed dirt. At one point, Avery snaps off the radio, then sits back and crosses her arms. The night presses against the car windows.

  Finally, the cottages come into view. Beyond them, a heavy moon rises over Long Island Sound. It drops a swath of silver on the water. When Mack turns the car into their driveway, their beach cottage is so dark, it’s barely visible. Every window is as black as the night.

  Avery reaches over and squeezes Mack’s arm. “You didn’t leave a light on?” she whispers.

  two

  SOMETHING ABOUT THE EARLY LIGHT of day edging the curtains changes things. You can see it in the way the couple lounges in bed, beneath the sheets, Monday morning. Avery lies on her side. Mack moves closer, and from behind, wraps an arm around her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Martinelli,” he says, then kisses the side of her head. A few moments later, he lifts the sheet and gets out of bed.

  “While you’re up, can you get my robe?” Avery’s sleepy voice asks.

  Mack lifts the short satin robe off the bed’s white wrought-iron footboard. Standing there in his pajama bottoms, he lets the robe’s fabric stroke the skin of her legs, her arms. “You sure you want it right now?”

  “Mack!” Avery sits up and takes the robe, slipping it on over her chemise. “We’re going out to breakfast, remember?”

  Lifting his wrinkled tee off that same footboard, Mack pulls the shirt over his head. Walking to the windows, he sweeps open the white curtains, which gets Avery to squint at the brilliant sunshine glinting off the expanse of Long Island Sound beyond.

  “I’ll put on coffee,” Mack tells her as he kisses her again, and strokes her blonde hair. “You relax.”

  So Avery sits alone on the bed. She takes a few breaths of the salt air filling the room. When the cry of seagulls reaches her, she walks over to those windows. Outside, a large lawn slopes down to dune grasses, beyond which lies the sea. Looking rested and at ease, Avery simply stands there—taking it all in. The sound of distant waves can be heard, too. Over and over, they lap onshore.

  In another moment, though, a different sound gets her to turn her head. Mack must’ve put on the TV in the other room. A news anchor’s muffled voice drifts close. When Avery turns toward the doorway, Mack is standing there—his hair mussed, a coffee in hand.

  “We’re on lockdown,” he says.

  “What?”

  “We’re not going out to breakfast. The governor announced the lockdown first thing. Except for essential businesses, the entire state of Connecticut is shut down.”

  “But … but restaurants?” Barefoot, Avery steps closer to Mack. “Aren’t they essential? We have to eat.”

  “At home, apparently. Everything’s closed, Avery. They showed a graph on TV. I guess the virus numbers are really spiking. Positive cases, up. Hospitalizations. Deaths. It’s right at our doorstep now. And the governor’s aim is to slow the spread of that virus and flatten the graph’s curve.” Mack sips from his coffee cup. “Stay-at-home orders have been issued.”

  “But this is our honeymoon!” Avery hurries back to the open window and looks out at the sunny morning. “I don’t know,” she quietly says then. “Maybe we should just leave.” She squints over at Mack for a long second. “What’s the point of looking out a window all week? It’s like we’re trapped here.”

  “No.” He walks into the bedroom and sets his coffee on a painted dresser. “Not trapped. We’re … hidden away. There’s a difference. We’re hidden away from the rest of the world.”

  “Either way, we’re in isolation.”

  “With the love of your life.”

  “Mack. You know what I mean. I didn’t plan to sit here for an entire week. That’s not a honeymoon.”

  Mack walks closer and takes her hands in his. “Some people would stay in bed all week now, and love that honeymoon. With a sea breeze blowing in. My arm around your shoulders. Whiling away the days beneath cool sheets.”

  Avery takes a quick breath and walks to the nightstand, where she turns on her cell phone. Right away, it starts dinging with accumulated emails and text messages. She reads them aloud.

  “Wine tasting, cancelled.” She flicks to another message. “Block Island ferry outing? Cancelled.” Sitting on the unmade bed then, she flicks through one message after the other. “Concert at The Kate in Old Saybrook? Cancelled! Spa morning at that resort in Westbrook? Done.” She looks at Mack still standing at the window. “We’re not getting our couple’s massage.”

 

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