Chapter 8
At nine o’clock, a soft knock on the bungalow door interrupted their quiet morning coffee on the deck. Julian opened it to find a young woman in her early twenties, wearing a standard blue housekeeping uniform and holding a cart filled with fresh linens and cleaning supplies. She looked surprised to see a guest answering the door so early.
“Good morning, sir,” the housekeeper said politely, stepping back half a step. “I’m here to service the room, but I can come back later if—”
“No, please, come right in,” Julian interrupted, stepping aside and offering a warm, unforced smile. “We were just heading out for a walk along the beach anyway.”
The young housekeeper blinked, clearly unaccustomed to guests stepping out of their way with such genuine politeness. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be quick.”
As Julian and Clara walked down the private wooden stairs leading directly onto the pristine white sand, Clara nudged her partner’s arm. “Did you see her badge?” she asked quietly.
“Maya,” Julian nodded, recalling the small name tag pinned to the blue uniform. “She looked about our age. Probably working her way through college, same way Margaret did forty years ago.”
“We should have brought her coffee,” Clara said, stopping to kick off her sandals so her bare feet could sink into the cool, damp sand near the shoreline. The tide was pulling back, leaving behind a mirror-like expanse of wet earth that reflected the brilliant morning sky. “Or at least thanked her properly. Yesterday, I would have walked past her like she was part of the furniture.”
“Yesterday is gone, Clara,” Julian said, taking off his own shoes and carrying them in one hand. He walked beside her along the water’s edge, the foaming surf gently washing over their ankles. “Margaret gave us a mirror yesterday, and honestly? I didn't like the reflection very much. But I think I like this one a lot better.”
May you like
“Do you think we can keep it?” Clara asked, her voice carrying a rare, vulnerable note of uncertainty. “Back home, I mean. When the emails start piling up and the quarterly reports are due. Is it possible to stay grounded when the whole world is screaming at you to climb over everyone else?”
Julian stopped walking and turned to face her, the ocean breeze catching his short dark hair. He reached out and gently brushed a stray blonde lock away from her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. “We have to, Clara. Because if we don’t, we’re just running on a treadmill that goes nowhere. From now on, we remember the second floor. We remember the dripping sink. And most importantly, we remember the woman in the cardigan.”
