The Girl I Used to Be by Heidi Hostetter (that summer book .txt) 📕

crayoned drawings of cats and ghosts to the windows. But there was one homeowner who had opted to go all-out for the holiday. There, a pair of bony skeletons peeked out from behind the porch columns, a witch’s broom hung from the tree branches on the sidewalk, and orange string lights laced the front shrubbery.

Jill slowed to marvel, and Stacy snorted.

“We take Halloween very seriously here,” she explained as she waited for Jill.

They took Halloween very seriously in the upscale neighborhood Jill had shared with Marc too, but they celebrated very differently. Every year, landscaping trucks descended on the first of October, with work crews, ladders, and miles of tiny white string lights. Decorators from fancy nurseries arrived next, arranging wheelbarrows, straw bedding, and trendy fall gourds that looked nothing like the bright orange pumpkins Jill had known as a child. In all the time she’d lived with Marc, Jill had never once been allowed to put up so much as a wreath on the door. The job fell to professional decorators and the result had been lovely but cold.

Jill preferred the Dewberry Beach version.

“It’s not all homey like this,” Stacy said, as if reading Jill’s thoughts. “This is one of the few original streets, untouched by developers.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is what Dewberry Beach used to look like when I was a kid, but it’s changed, especially near the ocean.”

“You mean because of the hurricane?”

“Yes, but not only that. People buy houses here then decide they want something bigger or different, so they expand the first floor or add a third. The remodels change the look and feel of the town, and it’s divided the town into before and after. But that’s a gripe for another time.” Stacy shivered as if to shake off the mood. “Anyway, that’s more than enough about me. What about you? What brings you to Dewberry Beach in October?”

“I came with my camera,” Jill answered truthfully. “When I stopped for lunch in the deli, I happened to see the notice for a photographer. That led to an interview and the festival job.”

“How lucky for the committee that you found the notice,” Stacy commented as they strolled. “Is it interesting, taking pictures? Do you like it?”

“I love it. It’s a hard industry to break into, especially if you want to do artistic work instead of commercial, which I do.” Jill shifted the weight of her bag across her shoulder. “What’s particularly nice is that your mom’s group is giving me artist credit on the website, and they’re letting me use the images for my portfolio.”

“Is that unusual?”

“It really is. And I’m grateful.”

“Brenda’s on the committee this year too, isn’t she?”

“Yes. I saw some of her work—she’s incredibly talented.”

“We have quite a few artists around here, believe it or not. If not in Dewberry Beach proper, then scattered around the area. The auction gives them a chance to show locally, because the closest gallery is miles from here.”

They rounded the corner of a dead-end street and came to the gates of the Yacht Club. The sight of it was jarring. An unexpectedly imposing structure in such a quiet neighborhood, it clearly did not belong. A formal entrance was marked with a pair of iron gates that opened to the wide circular driveway of meticulously raked white gravel. A patch of grass in the center of the courtyard was so artificially green that it looked like carpet. And if that wasn’t enough to stake their claim, the Yacht Club’s burgee stood tall, the fabric snapping smartly in the bay breeze. It didn’t seem right that a building like this could exist in Dewberry Beach. It felt pretentious and gawdy.

The attendant at the guard station waved them through and Jill glanced at Stacy, puzzled.

“I know.” Stacy rolled her eyes. “I can’t even stand to come here anymore, it’s changed so much. When locals lost control of the board, developers took over and everything went sideways.” She pointed to a structure built on pilings that jutted out over the water. “Look at that mess over there. They built a swimming pool over the water.” She scoffed. “When I was a kid and we wanted to go swimming, we ran to the end of the dock and jumped off—right into the bay. Back then, the entire building was only meant to store lifejackets, boat line, bumpers. Boat stuff. Now look at it.” She shook her head. “They even put a ballroom on the second floor.”

“So why use it for the festival?”

“Because as much as I’ve come to loathe this place, it’s the only space in town big enough to hold the auction.” She frowned. “They charge us a fortune to rent the space for our fundraiser. A school fundraiser.” She grimaced. “This club is built on town land and they were even granted a waiver to enlarge the building after the hurricane, but the new board has a short memory and no sense of obligation. And you know what’s worse?”

“What?”

“Just last summer I was one of them. I brought the kids here. To the pool deck.” Stacy opened the oversized front door. “Thankfully, I’ve changed since then.”

Jill stepped into the foyer and hesitated, a bit unnerved by the grandeur. The reception area reminded her of a wedding she and Marc had attended a few years before. They too had had an ornate flower arrangement on a marble-topped side table, a guest book and silver pen near the entrance, and a coat-check off to the side.

Jill glanced at Stacy. The setting seemed so out of place.

“I know.” Stacy rolled her eyes again. “Horrible, isn’t it? And it gets worse. C’mere, lemme show you.” She led Jill to a series of old photographs documenting the club’s history. The first showed a group of men in overalls framing a wooden shack on the edge of the bay, a pile of cast-off cedar planks nearby. “Dockworkers built this place back in 1930-something as a place to store boat equipment. A lot of them fished