Montauk beach doesn't yet look like the idyllic holiday destination the flyers made it look like. The sky above is a cloudy grey and the air smells like rain. Still, there is something to be said for the way the streets look after rainfall and the way the small crabs follow the tide back to the ocean. It seems as good a place as any to make a fresh start.
Before coming, I had made plans with a woman that ran a B&B to stay the summer. She'd agreed to let me pay half the rate in exchange for making up beds and doing some light cleaning which was generous. I'd calculated that with the new job, I would be able to pay for the apartment in New York and a room for at least ten weeks before money became a serious issue.
I pull up outside the address that Moira, the proprietress had given me over the phone. "It's not the prettiest house on the block," she'd said, somewhat apologetically, "But it stands up ok." Looking at it face to face, I seriously hope she was right.
The building has an overall dilapidated look that makes it look like it's leaning to the left, about to tip over at any moment. The walls, at some point, must have been painted orange because there are still patches where the paint hasn't peeled away. The shutters too must have not been hanging on rusty hinges. The front porch sags a little and looks like it could easily give away under your feet. But there's a garden. Growing up in New York, the largest bit of greenery I've seen is Central Park. It's always been one of my favourite places, especially in spring, but I've always wished to live somewhere with a garden. The lawn is overgrown and there are weeds pushing through the tall grass. The apple tree by the front gate looks tired. But it's still beautiful in its own shabby way.
I can't help but let out a soft sigh of pleasure. With a bit of paint and a good lawnmower, this could look like something out of a picture book.
I drag my suitcase up the front path – or what I can see of it under the over grass that's attacked it – and pull it up the porch steps. I ring the doorbell and wait for someone to answer. I start to think no one is home when I hear shuffling inside and the door swings open.
"Oh, God!" the woman, most probably Moira, exclaims when she sees me standing there, "I am so sorry! I knew I'd put my keys down somewhere but...Oh, come on in!"
Moira looks so flustered that I'm not sure what I should say. She's tiny, barely over five feet, with curly, shoulder-length hair dyed a violent shade of red. She's rather plump, but in a matronly way, and her skin is pale and freckled. She's dressed in a red kaftan with some sort of Bohemian print and hard hands are streaked with paint.
"I was in my studio," she explains when she sees me looking at her hands, "It's in the basement." She fans her face exaggeratedly as if to explain that's why it took her so long to get the door.
"It's ok," I say, "Thank you so much for letting me stay here, I really app –"
"Oh, don't worry about that!" Moira laughs, waving her hand dismissively. "I could use the help around here. Do you want some lemonade?"
She doesn't wait for me to reply but instead, she makes her way down the hallway and ushers for me to follow. The narrow hall is cluttered in a homely way. In the hallway stands a chair missing its seat, a wobbly coat-rack and shoes that Moira kicks out of the way as she passes them. The walls a bright green and covered with photos and paintings of the beach that I think must be Moira's own. If they are, she's very talented.
"Did you paint these?" I ask as we pass them.
"Hm? Oh, yes," she answers, looking pleased that I noticed.
The kitchen space she leads me into is just as cluttered as I expected. The countertops are covered in cookbooks, clean plates that were never put away and discarded mugs of coffee. There is barely any room for the kitchen appliances. There is a shelf of knick-knacks, those hideously endearing souvenirs that seaside towns specialise in, and a large framed photo of Moira with a beaming blonde woman hangs on one of the yellow walls.
"Make yourself comfortable," she says, pointing to a small breakfast table with two chairs. On one of them, a fat orange cat snores contentedly so I choose the other. "I forgot to mention Travis. I hope you're not allergic to cats!"
I tell her I'm not but I've barely finished my sentence before she starts up again. "Strictly speaking, Sally, I may have exaggerated a little about this being a B&B. It's more of a bed and breakfast in progress. As in, it will be once I get a licence and, you know, start running it. As of now, it's just a house."
"You mean I'm not even supposed to be here?" How come she hadn't told me about this on the phone? "Is this even legal?"
"Don't worry, we won't get in trouble," Moira laughs as she pours the lemonade but she sounds a little unsure, "I'm just renting out a room. People are allowed to do that, right? And the house is perfectly safe!"
I think about the saggy porch and the broken shutters. I'm not entirely sure she's right. But it's the best I've got.
"Don't back out on me, Sally," Moira says a little sadly. When she looks at me, it feels like I have known her for years even though I've barely spoken to her. "I need this."
"The money?"
"Well, yes," she sighs, "And the company."
I think about it. I need company too. I have no family, not really, and I need a place to stay. Moira seems perfectly nice, if a little eccentric.
"So, where will I be sleeping?"
