The beach house was spotless, and it was no mystery that no one lived there year-round, if ever. Everything was too neat and clean. Functional items such as a vacuum cleaner, dishes, coffee maker, or a trash bin were nowhere in sight. There was one television, nearly hidden in a tiny room upstairs.

Watercolors and photographs of ocean scenes, sailboats, and the beach adorned the walls of the breezeway. There were also a few pictures of yachts, seagulls, and lighthouses on the living room walls. Some of the framed pieces did not depict anything but, instead, displayed words with insipid sayings like life is a beach, or live laugh love. Trinket-sized souvenirs from around the world of the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, and the Statue of Liberty covered the surface of a coffee table otherwise better suited for more practical items like coasters, ashtrays, or a few select books or magazines. However, there was one ashtray in the shape of Florida on an end table, but I suspect no one ever used it and that its sole purpose was decorative. Besides, I knew the owner didn't smoke or, for that matter, drink - one of the reasons why the cottage was so pristine. Yet, I doubt she ever lived there at all. And, rarely did she rent it out or invite guests.

The woman traveled extensively for business and pleasure - Rome, Tokyo, Paris, London, etc. When she was on hiatus, she spent most of her time at her lavish apartment in Manhattan, where she would occasionally take in a Broadway show, visit a museum, or go out to dinner with a friend or two. She had someone, a neighbor or a friend, check the cottage periodically. She also paid a maintenance guy to come in every two weeks to clean and make minor repairs if needed.

During the summer, my wife and I had the rare privilege of staying at the cottage. We were so afraid to disrupt the immaculate house that we hardly spent any time there other than sleeping there for the night. We never unpacked our suitcases, and we went out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for fear of spilling coffee or crumbs.

On the first day of our brief vacation, we went for a walk on the beach. When we returned to the cottage, I accidentally got a few grains of sand on the polished hardwood floor. Not finding a vacuum cleaner, I managed to wipe up the sand with a large dinner napkin I saved from the restaurant where we had breakfast earlier that morning. Despite my best effort, the tiny grains of sand barely scuffed the otherwise perfect sheen of the oak floor. Although I didn't think it was noticeable, I moved the doormat about five inches away from the door to cover the damage just in case.

After only one day, we were so uncomfortable for fear of touching anything, we decided to go home where we could live, laugh, and love without restraint.

Story and Cover Illustration Copyright © 2021 by Michael DeFrancesco