by Linda Harris Sittig

Cover Design by JD Smith Design http://www.jdsmith-design.com

For this month I am treating all blog followers for the first several pages of my new book, Chasing the Tides. Just like my other novels this one follows the story of two strong women. What makes it different is that the two women lived eighty years apart, but owned the same beach cottage on the Georgia coast that held long-buried family secrets.

ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA, SEPTEMBER 2023

Emmie let out a deep sigh of contentment.

September on St. Simons was a gift, like the sky today, a bluebird sky. The cottage that had been a part of Emmie’s life since childhood now belonged to her. She sat at the old kitchen counter and thought of sultry summer afternoons spent with her father on the beach and the soft mornings with her grandmother in the tiny kitchen.

Emmie adored both of them. Her grandmother showed her how to make clown-faced pancakes with whipped cream, strawberries, and oranges. When they cooked together, it formed a special bond that united them, and of course, the cottage. Comraich-by-the-Sea. In the cottage, Emmie learned to steam shrimp, debone fish, and bake the perfect birthday cake. All culinary successes before she even graduated from high school.

But now, she was twenty-five, and both her father and grandmother had passed. The cottage was the memory link between the three of them. Well, that and her auburn hair and love of cooking.

Emmie pushed the front screen door, which still stuck a bit, even after all these years, and slipped outside. She leaned against the front porch railing and inhaled the pungent odor of island pluff mud rising from the marsh. With her father’s unexpected death and her divorced mother on the other side of the globe, Emmie had become the sole steward of the cottage. And while most of her college friends had already married, Emmie was chasing her dream of becoming a chef.

She looked back at the cottage. Her father and grandma never talked much about the cottage’s history, except that it had been in the family since the 1940s. And Emmie had never thought to ask questions. Once, she did ask about its unusual moniker, but her father had only mumbled, “I think it’s named after a town somewhere in Europe. Something about World War II.” Because he showed no further curiosity, neither did Emmie.

All she knew or cared about was that she loved the cottage, the tides, and the sun-kissed air of the beach. If she closed her eyes, she could still see herself as a freckled little girl running along the shoreline, playing tag with the tides.

But those years were long gone. Now, she was a young woman trying to decide about her future.

She walked down the steps, coffee mug in hand, and turned back to look at the cottage from an outsider’s perspective. Comraich-by-the-Sea was small compared to the other cottages on East Beach and certainly lacked the curb appeal that realtors sought.

The weathered silvery-gray cedar shingles gave it an authenticity the newer homes didn’t have, and the two sage-green storm shutters that hugged the front windows announced that this cottage had withstood many coastal storms.

But it was the front door that Emmie loved most. Her Grandma Kate had insisted they keep the old door with its soft blue paint because her mother had stipulated that ghosts couldn’t cross through the color of water. As a child, Emmie had asked her grandmother if the cottage had ghosts.

“We keep the door blue,” Grandma Kate replied.

She smiled at that memory and gently shook her head to clear the cobwebs of childhood dreams. Then she turned her attention to the small front yard. The driveway was made of crushed shells pressed into the ground. An old wax myrtle tree stood off to the side, and several Indian Hawthorn bushes hugged the driveway. Bright yellow lantana plants gave color to the front of the house, but over the years, holes in the landscape had appeared where one or more plants had not prospered. Today was the day Emmie planned to spruce up the yard.

She put down her coffee mug and dragged out the heavy bag of potting soil mixed with fertilizer. Then she went over to retrieve a flat of bright yellow coreopsis that sat in the shade, waiting for their new home.

At least there was an old hoe from the storage shed, and she used it to rake and chop the sandy soil with enthusiasm. Next, she mixed the potting soil into the dirt. Soon, her T-shirt stuck to her back, even though the sun wasn’t high in the sky yet. Carefully placing the flowers in their spots, she dug a hole for each plant. Afterward, she gently tucked each one into the improved ground and scooped a small mound of dirt around it for protection.

Back at the storage shed, she retrieved the watering can, filled it at the outdoor spigot, and watered each plant. It did not take her long to realize she needed a good garden hose.

The job took two hours.

Finally satisfied with her efforts, she noticed that the coreopsis closest to the front door had slipped to one side. With a sigh, she bent down to fix it.

Carefully removing the plant, she took the trowel and dug deeper. Then she hit metal. Her hands scooped away the sandy dirt, and she discovered an old, partially rusted tin. No bigger than her palm, the tin appeared large enough to hold buttons or pins but not much else. She tried to open it, but without success.

Curiosity got the better of her, and she returned to the house and opened a kitchen drawer. She rummaged around for a knife, then sat at the table and worked on the tin until she could pry the lid open. Inside lay a wad of old linen cloth. Unwrapping the fabric, she found a Celtic cross medal. Circular in shape, smaller than the length of her thumb, and probably made of pewter. With it was a folded square of paper. She opened the faded paper and saw the word Comraich written in flowing penmanship.

The name of the cottage. Where did this come from?A slight shiver ran down her spine.

She worked on the medal until it was clean and perched on the kitchen windowsill. Then she took out her laptop and searched for the word Comraich. She found it was an old Gaelic term meaning sanctuary.

Sanctuary from what? And who decided to give the cottage an Irish name?

Then she Googled Celtic cross medals and found they were often given as protection gifts to newborn babies.

Very strange.

She sat back and tried to figure out any real Irish connection to her family. True, her Grandma Kate had told her wonderful stories about fairies, but was that a connection?

And sanctuary? Who needed a sanctuary, and why? And was the front door painted blue to ward off ghosts as part of the sanctuary?

She longed to ask her father and grandmother these questions. But that, of course, was impossible. If she alone were now the steward of the cottage, then it was up to her to solve the mystery.

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Stay tuned for the next installment. The full book, Chasing the Tides, will be released on November 1st.

~ Linda