Pastel Colored Sadness

CHAPTER 3 The Beach House

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Chapter 3

The Beach House

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The drive wasn't long. Knowing I was an anxious driver, Sam knew where to direct me so that I never had to freak out over merging or highways on the way to a tiny town now building around me as I passed through, my tiny yellow bug chugging its last breath while I stopped at a gas station.

Beside this gas station was a bar and a diner on the other. A kid that must still be in high school was cleaning off the front porch with an old straw broom, the diner's logo on his black T-shirt.

The kid waved at me from the porch, then continued sweeping.

With growing unease, I fill my tank while I smoke. This has been my second box since Tom's death and I knew I was going through them too fast but couldn't care less right now. I used to have one a year, maybe less. It was only for when I was overly stressed and couldn't talk to Tom about my newest project, or pick up my guitar and show him what's stressing me out with my music. It was to get the edge off, but the edge wasn't coming off. Maybe because Tom wasn't there to smell the smoke lingering on me and start finding ways to make me relaxed.

I relied on him so much. Maybe too much, I mused as an old man walked up to me. "Are you Taylor Clemmings?" He looked like a modern-day farmer with his boots and yellow plaid shirt tucked tightly over a beer belly under the large belt buckle adorned jeans he wore.

"Yes? And you are?" I asked in reply, stomping on my cig. I never smoked with anyone besides Sam around me, who didn't mind that I smoked around him throughout the years I've been smoking. I started when I was twelve, and he was the one I usually went to when I did smoke. Theo hated the smell of smoke, so I've never been an avid smoker.

"The Sheriff," he snapped me from my train of thought, "Sam's my nephew. He asked me to give you the keys to the beach house. If you want to use anything you can't get into, or if something else is wrong, just call the number on the fridge. We'll send someone up to help you out," the Sheriff handed me a set of keys. Now that the smoke from my cig was clearing up, I could smell the scent of sickeningly sweet fruit. A smell that all other Kelpies besides my Sam smelled like. All Seafolk can smell this on an unclaimed male Kelpie, one that was unlucky enough that he couldn't have a family of his own unless he were to find a Mer that was willing to make a contract with him. Usually, that would be a Mer and their Kelpie in need of an adult to watch over them.

"Thanks, Sheriff. I'll call when I need you," I promised, pulling out my card to pay for the gas. The Sheriff swiped his own card and punched in his code.

"Gas is on me. Anything for a friend of Sam's. You have a good day," Sheriff smiled and walked off. Great, it's an overly friendly town that'll nose their way into the beach house.

"Thank you," I say quietly, getting into my car and driving off again. When I arrived at my destination, I fell in love with the beach house instantly: it was beautiful.

An off-the-ground foundation with an open padio porch, made of darkened wood with opened blue shutters. There were yellow curtains with white shell lace fringe in the rippling light green glass windows. A corroded door handle on a white door covered in handprints with names beneath them was the only telltale sign of what this house was used for. Over to the side was a swing beneath a large oak tree with branches that brushed the second-story window in a gentle breeze.

This swing was worn smooth from all the people who sat on it, the rope braided in with the old, its seat high enough that when I sat down on its bleached surface, I sat at a perfect angle overlooking the ocean. My once long brown hair that now fell between my chin and shoulders swayed in the cool breeze, lifting with it the smell of the ocean. I might never go into it, but I could admire its beauty.