Chapter 4: The Salt Air
The salt air tasted clean and sharp on my lips, carrying the distant cry of gulls wheeling above the gray expanse of the Atlantic. Two days after Veronica’s visit, Dad had packed up the townhouse and driven us three hours south to an isolated stretch of coastline where the state highway dissolved into a narrow gravel road. The house here was small, built of weathered cedar shingles and surrounded by tall sea oats that bent constantly in the ocean breeze. There were no grand chandeliers, no polished hardwood floors that required kneeling, and no echoing hallways where footsteps could be heard approaching from rooms away.
I sat on the wide wooden porch, my bare feet tucked beneath a pair of oversized denim overalls that Dad had bought me at a general store down the road. The black maid dress was sealed inside a black plastic trash bag at the bottom of a metal bin behind the garage, where Dad had thrown it without a word of explanation. For the first time in as long as I could remember, my hands weren't stinging from turpentine. They were simply small, pale, and resting quietly on my knees as I watched the foam of the surf recede into the sand.
Dad walked out the screen door carrying two mugs of cocoa, steam rising into the cool afternoon air. He wore a heavy wool sweater instead of his three-piece suit, his graying hair ruffled by the sea wind. He handed me a mug, his fingers brushing against mine with a gentle, reassuring warmth, and then sat down in the wooden rocking chair beside me.
"Better than the city?" he asked, taking a slow sip from his mug.
"It's quiet," I said, watching a small crab scuttle across a piece of driftwood near the shoreline. "Nobody tells me to check the corners for dust."
Dad smiled, though there was a lingering shadow in his eyes—the kind of weight that didn't disappear just because you changed your zip code. "Good. Because there's no dust here worth worrying about. Just sand and salt water." He set his mug down on the small table between us and reached into the pocket of his sweater, pulling out a smooth, round gray stone he must have picked up during his morning walk along the cliffs. He turned it over in his palm before placing it gently into my hand. "Your only job from now on is being a kid, Sofia. Understand?"
May you like
I turned the heavy stone over in my fingers, feeling its cool, solid weight. "Even if I make a mess?"
"Especially if you make a mess," Dad laughed softly, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close against his side. Out on the horizon, the sun was beginning to dip toward the water, turning the gray waves into streaks of molten gold and copper. For the first time, the light didn't feel cold or artificial. It felt like something that belonged to the world, and to us.
