Free Ashes by Kelly Cozy Page A

she said. “Still quite a few fishermen in Haven Cove, thought not as many as in my parents’ day. It’s the safest marina on the Sunshine Coast. A south-facing beach, you see. Keeps the boats sheltered from storms. The old-timers call it Port Hidey-Hole.”
    Jennifer smiled. Haven Cove was well-named indeed. The peninsula curved protectively around the marina, seeming to hold the boats tenderly, the way someone would hold a tiny kitten. She was a bit sorry when they made another turn and the marina was lost to her sight. But not sorry for long.
    “Ah, here we are,” Katie said.
    She did not know who had owned 314 Douglas before her. But they had loved it, and well. That was clear the moment Jennifer set foot on the walkway, red brick in a herringbone pattern. The house was cream-colored, with shutters and trim and door in dark green. Window boxes, although empty, nonetheless brightened the house with their cedar hue. The lawn was slightly overgrown but this only enhanced the appeal, gave the grass the look of a plush carpet. Rosebushes, stems hanging heavy with seashell-pink and lipstick-red blooms, flanked the doorway like sentries.
    Katie unlocked the door and the two of them stepped inside. She followed discreetly, letting Jennifer discover the house for herself, only offering comments when she saw a questioning look in Jennifer’s eyes.
    Jennifer was never able to describe, exactly, what she felt when she entered the house. It was not deja vu — she had no sensation that she had been here before. The feeling was not familiarity but comfort. The living room: a wine-colored carpet and the walls done in a marble pattern, creamy white with gentle threads of rose and gray, the fireplace in gray riverstone. The dining room: country blue accents and a plate rail that simply begged for knickknacks and bric-a-brac. The kitchen: more country blue except for the stove, a gleaming, stainless-steel beast that Jennifer had seen on cooking shows. A bathroom: not much counter space but a large clawfoot bathtub, snowy porcelain on the inside and deep cobalt blue on the outside, the walls painted blue with bright tropical fish stenciled in. A bedroom at the back: its windows looking out to the west, where the sun glittered on the ocean and slanted in the window, giving the room its golden light. Another room: too small for a bedroom but big enough to be a study or a sewing room or whatever she wanted it to be. A tiny backyard, big enough for a hammock.
    Not a big house. A cottage. The sort of place that was called “charming” in the real estate listings. But size did not matter. Jennifer wandered the rooms, walked through them in a loop. She was not searching. She was drinking in the feel of the house, its comfort, the feel of an embrace from an old friend. Or a new one.
    * * *
    A little more than a month later and Jennifer, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, sat on the floor, a cup of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten banana in the other, trying to summon the will to unpack. In spite of her resolve to start afresh it seemed she’d brought quite a bit from Los Angeles. And what had never seemed completely real through all the days of packing and signing papers was now very real indeed. She was an expatriate. An innocent abroad. It certainly sounded romantic, but in reality she was surrounded by boxes and furniture placed helter-skelter, there was nothing in the refrigerator but a six-pack of Coke and a jar of applesauce, and she couldn’t go get more food because she wasn’t entirely certain where the grocery store was. She supposed she could knock on one of the neighbors’ doors and ask. She peered out the windows. The house on the left looked as if the owners had gone to work for the day. The house on the right seemed occupied — she could see a light in the kitchen and make out the faint sounds of the TV, Elmer Fudd declaring that he would kill the wabbit with his spear and magic helmet. Jennifer smiled in spite of