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  Castle in the Sand

  Megan Hart

  Smashwords Edition.

  Copyright 2010 Megan Hart

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  ***THIS WORK WAS PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED AS SAND CASTLE***

  Castle in the Sand

  By Megan Hart

  Some things change.

  And some things don't.

  The key in Claire Munroe's fingers slipped into the lock without effort, but though she had no trouble turning it, the door wouldn't open. She put her shoulder against the weathered, once-white painted wood and pushed. It still wouldn't budge.

  "C'mon, you bugger."

  Claire Munroe had been coming to Nonesuch for a long time. She'd done her share of cleaning and repairing. She'd given this unassuming beach house her share of sweat and toil, and yes, even her share of blood. She had the scars to prove it--there on the palm of her hand, where the splintered wood of the deck had once gouged her deep enough to leave a mark.

  Dale and Kevin, two of the eight who'd dubbed themselves "the Fellowship" during their college years, had found the door at a junkyard and brought it to Nonesuch because of its beautiful and amazingly still-intact stained glass window. Claire had never had difficulty with it before, but like everything else about the house, the door was worn and sometimes cranky.

  She shaded her eyes and peered through the squares of blue and red to the cozy, familiar kitchen inside. Had someone arrived before her and padlocked the door? She looked over the splintered balcony again. No car, and besides, it was her turn this year to open up the house.

  Clouds blew across the sun, which should have been bright with the promise of summer, but instead was a pale, lifeless disc against a gray and unhappy looking sky.

  Some weather for June, she thought with a shudder that wracked her from her head to her toes. It was cold and looked like rain. They'd be lucky if they got any time at the beach at all.

  She removed the key, rubbed it on the sleeve of her cardigan, then slipped it back into the lock. "C'mon."

  The door opened with a creak and groan that made Claire smile and shake her head. "Sand in your joints? I know how you feel."

  Once inside, she hung her keys on the hook below her name and the laminated photo of her from ten years before. In all this time, they'd never changed the pictures. Claire paused in front of the purple-painted piece of molding one of them had hung so many years ago. Eight hooks. Eight photos. One for each of us.

  She touched them all in turn. "The Fellowship."

  The name had begun as a joke in the dorm in which they'd all lived, but it had lasted through four years of college and ten years of friendship since. They'd been together through final exams, frat parties, panty raids, job interviews, marriages and births. Dale, Tracey, Kevin, Lisa, Joe, Alisha, Claire...and finally, the last face...Malcolm.

  The smile left her lips and Claire turned away from that last picture. She didn't want to think about Malcolm. If he even bothered to show up this year, she'd do what she always did. Let her eyes slide past him. Pass him the salt at the dinner table and make certain their fingers never touched. She'd had years of experience ignoring Malcolm McGregor. She'd get by. She always did.

  The thought sent another chill skittering down her spine, and she rubbed her hands briskly along her arms. It was too cold for June. Claire rubbed her hands together to warm them, too. She realized she was gritting her teeth at the memory of his face, and she forced herself to relax. Stop thinking about him. He's not worth this.

  She looked around the kitchen where she'd spent most of her vacations for the past ten years. Nonesuch wasn't one of the big fancy beach houses tourists shelled out exorbitant amounts of money to rent during the summer. If it had been, not even the Fellowship teaming up together financially could have afforded to buy it.

  The house had been, and always would be, slightly ramshackle, no matter how much time and money they put into it. It was two stories, set on stilts, with multiple decks and balconies, a screened porch and a modest, cozy kitchen. They'd turned the top floor, originally only an attic space, into a sleeping area. They'd also redone the dining room and an old laundry room as well to give Nonesuch five bedrooms.

  The single, narrow bathroom boasted a leaky shower and a toilet with a pull-chain. There was rarely enough hot water for everyone to shower with, and the only air conditioning came from the open windows, while an ancient, cranky gas stove provided a modicum of warmth in the rare winter months they visited.

  Claire loved it. Not to live in all the time, of course, since she did like her creature comforts. But for the week every year they all came together, and for occasional weekends, Nonesuch was perfect.

  Sleeping space was awarded on a first-come, first-serve basis, and there was never a question about which room Claire chose. She climbed the steep, narrow stairs, which opened directly into the attic space. The sloping roof made walking a hazard, unless you kept to the middle of the room. A double bed and matching dresser took up most of the space, while a smaller single bed had been tucked away beneath the eaves. A rag rug Claire had found in town gave a splash of color to the bare wooden floor.

  There was nothing extravagant about this room, just as there was nothing luxurious about the rest of the house, but it was Claire's favorite for one reason. The view. Two windows, one on each end, let in bright light and gave a view of the sea from one and the small stand of evergreen trees on the other.

  Hoping to catch a glimpse of the ocean, she went to the bed and knelt on it to peer out the window. Claire frowned, then ran her finger along the glass. It came away black with dust. She wrinkled her nose. No wonder the room had seemed so dim. She looked down at the bed's comforter. She remembered it as being a wildly colored patchwork quilt of vivid reds and blues. Now the red looked more like pink, and the blue had faded so much it was nearly white. She blinked, then looked again. Had someone changed the cover? The pattern looked the same, but the colors...the colors just didn't seem right.

  Claire got up and looked down at the rug. She had bought it in a local artisan's shop four years ago, loving the splashes of color and texture, but not quite willing to have such a crazy piece in her apartment. It had been perfect for the attic room. Now, the colors she recalled as being so vibrant and clashing looked muted. Pale. She bent and touched the twists of rag. It was the same rug...wasn't it?

  Disturbed, she got to her feet and looked around. The sea air destroyed everything, slowly but inexorably. Things faded. The constant grit of sand underfoot had worn the linoleum in the kitchen downstairs to the wood beneath. Maybe it had worn the rug, too.

  With a shrug, she put the rug and the coverlet out of her mind. She'd clean the windows and put fresh linens on the bed. Maybe she'd buy a new rug again this year.

  Feeling better, Claire went back downstairs to the kitchen. A dark shape stood silhouetted in the doorway and she let out a cry. Her heart flew into her throat and she stumbled back.

  The man stepped toward her. Instant recognition swept over her, and embarrassment flooded her. "You scared the life out of me!"

  "Hello, Claire. I wasn't certain you'd be here."

  He pronounced it "sair-tin," in the faint lilt of a Scottish burr that hadn't faded though he'd spent nearly twenty years in the United States.

  "The list goes around in December."