To the Beach and Back

Chapter One

Either you're a beach person or you're not.

My ex-husband certainly is one.

I, most certainly, am not.

Sand on beach towels drives me insane, saltwater stings my eyes, the ocean terrifies me, my pale skin burns from just a touch of sun, and seeing thin, bikini-clad women only makes me feel fat, like a pale winter thorn amongst sun-soaked roses.

It's no wonder why Nick divorced me.

And why I have no interest in using my boss's beach house, no matter how much he persists.

"Come on, Marcie, why not?" Ryan asks as a cool June breeze flows through my office window. "The weather next week is going to be amazing, and my place will be empty. You should go!"

I shrug and focus on alphabetizing a stack of invoices to be entered and paid, one of my many tasks as his administrative assistant. "That's kind of you, Ryan, but I already have vacation plans."

"Oh, right, your staycation. Sounds amazing."

He snorts and picks up a framed photo of Nick and me at our son's high school graduation three years ago, back when we were a still family; before Wesley headed off to college without a backward glance and Nick replaced me with a twenty-eight-year-old jewelry designer.

And yes, she's a beach person.

I force a cheery smile. "Hey, staycations are trendy, Ryan! Don't you know that?"

"Not anymore, not after Covid." He puts down the photo and strolls over to the bay window, sitting on the cushioned ledge and looking down at a cute new boutique on Main Street that I've been meaning to visit for months. "We had enough staycations during that nightmare to last ten years or more, remember?"

Who doesn't?

Everybody remembers those days, although I still regret not being more productive during quarantine. Instead of perfecting homemade sourdough bread and watching endless reruns of Sister Wives, I could have bought a Peloton and got in shape. I should have read more, learned more, and focused more on Nick instead of the world's gloom and doom.

Maybe I would still be married had I done so.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda.

I tug at my cardigan sleeve and glance at my stuffed planner that's full of unfinished to-do lists, failed fitness plans, and backlogged projects that make me wish for a quarantine do-over ... without the Covid part, of course. This is why I need a staycation, two glorious weeks of focused work to get my life together and save money for retirement.

After all, I am 52. Time is running out.

And of course, Ryan doesn't understand this. He spent his quarantine starting a wildly successful TikTok account called Renovations with Ryan that offers home repair and remodeling advice. His recent series about laundry room makeovers got him over a million views alone, just like my neighbor, Sonya, a vibrant twenty-six-year-old beauty influencer who receives boxes and boxes of free products every day and bought her house by herself ... in cash.

I can't even imagine that kind of independence, let alone success.

Ryan glances at me with a frown, dressed in jeans and a coral polo shirt that makes his dark skin look like the color of rich mahogany. Even in casual clothes, he still looks elegant with the broad-shouldered stature of a retired football player ... something that many of his fans admire.

"Okay, Marcie, how about one week of staycation and one week at the beach?" he asks. "Even a few days would do you a world of good."

Traveling four hours to a swelteringly hot and sandy tourist trip won't do me any good and besides, my body isn't exactly in beach condition, so no thanks.