Chapter 1

Holly put both her hands flat on the deep sill of the hinged window of her bedroom and leaned out to see the morning

light. Then she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt over her head. Flip- flops and bare feet were a common option, but this morning—like most mornings, in the early hours when it was cool—she put on a pair of sneakers so she could walk along the entire length of the seawall before the sun rose too high in the sky.

The top of the wall was as wide as a sidewalk and had the most beautiful ocean view she’d ever seen. At points along the way, the waves crashed spectacularly upon the cement pilings before taking a back dive toward the Caribbean. Each big surge made a great brumpfasshh sound that made her heart feel light.

Holly loved how the locals smiled their hello as she jogged by. How in the grocery store, shoppers often burst out singing together when a favorite song came on the radio, broadcast by the shop’s sound system. How music seemed to be everywhere. As constant as the competing crash of the waves.

She wanted all of her guests to enjoy the island the way she did. She counseled her visitors that climbing up to the top of the wall at the start of the walk was a bit of a challenge, as was jump- ing down when they reached the far end.

She also told them, “Don’t try it if you mind getting seafoam in your hair.”

After her exercise, like most locals, Holly used the cool mornings for physical work, as the salt air and seasonal storms created a never-ending array of maintenance projects. On the extensive fencing, for example, which was needed to keep the wild donkeys, horses, and dogs out, a fresh coat of paint was always wanted. When she got back from her run, she painted a section white; then she dropped the brush in a bucket of water to soak. Anyone with any sense at all went inside or found a spot in the shade by midmorning.

Holly sat in her favorite place under an enormous Lignum vitae, sometimes called a “tree of life.” It draped over one ocean-facing corner of her deep, stuccoed front porch. A high, thick, white limestone wall that was plastered to match the main house snugly fenced her small yard off from the street. On its opposite ends, two bright blue wooden gates rattled with each strong gust of the trade breeze.

The roof of the porch blocked the morning sun as it rose from behind her. The high wall in front would soon provide her some protection from the hottest rays when her work hours eased into the late afternoon. Holly kept a small table and chair in the spot under the cascading tree; it was there she now worked, hunched over her computer in the heat of the day, lost in the details of the orders she was placing, her troubles far, far away.

The restaurant needed new cloth napkins. She wondered about color and the quality of the fabric. This time should I find a product with some texture? White is classic, but maybe it’s time for a change. It was the details that absorbed her imagination. The joy of creating something new.

A cruise ship was in port for a few hours and one of their trolley-shaped buses rolled slowly by with its loudspeaker blaring: “Though Grand Turk Island is the capital city of the Turks and Caicos, it has remained the quiet coastal village you see today. To your right is the historic Roseate House built in 1832. Though built as a family home, it’s now a popular inn.”

Holly shifted in her seat and acknowledged the mention of her business by waving to the bus. Many others in town complained about the almost daily invasion of tourists, but Holly’s response to that was, “It’s good for business and they’re gone by three in the afternoon. Not exactly a bother.” The temporary influx of Amer- icans soothed her, too, as she was one of the very few who lived on Grand Turk Island.

This was a particularly large bus group. She stood up for a minute and peered across the street to make sure her head chef, Sameera, was opening the restaurant. The kitchen was wide open; she let out an assured sigh. Business will be good today. She sat down and allowed her attention to return to her computer’s screen.

As the tour director squawked, his voice brought her back to the real world again.

“Across the road is a beach restaurant called the Sand Dollar, which was converted from an old garage. A beach bistro with signature cocktails, it’s known in town as a fun place to hang out. And please notice the architecture of the inn, which was built in the British Colonial Bermudan style.”

She tried to push the sound away. Return to her work. But she found she was marveling about how many centuries had passed since this town was built. She never ceased to be amazed that so many of the old homes on Duke and Front Streets had survived despite their low-lying coastal location. Much of the island had to be fixed or rebuilt every decade or two as the result of a direct hit from a major hurricane, yet the oceanfront road remained largely intact.

With the exception of her fingers clicking on the keys, she sat almost frozen for a long time. Holly was used to hard work. In the early afternoon, she got up and briefly went across the street to ask for a sandwich, then took it back to eat at her desk while she worked. For only a few minutes at a time that afternoon did she jump up and run into the office—to sharpen her pencil, grab her notebook, or pour a glass of water—and each time she was back on task quickly.

By the time she was answering emails, her shoulders and neck were beginning to ache.

She finally stood to stretch, staring out across her yard toward the sharp, deep blue line of the coral reef. In stark contrast to the turquoise water, the sharp drop-off of The Wall was a kilometer from shore.

Day is nearly over, Holly thought. Why does it always make me feel so melancholy?

The sun had fallen away from the peak of its arc and was inching closer to the western horizon. It seemed oddly quiet with the cruise guests gone. Resigned that the hours were gathering toward nightfall, she picked up her paperwork and laptop and went inside to shower.

Since Holly had come to live permanently on island, she’d ceased to see any point in trying to “do” her hair. The high humidity of the Caribbean air and the constant winds made her various attempts at styling irrelevant. Following her shower, she simply ran a wide-tooth comb through her wet tresses and let them air-dry.

To dress for the evening, she reached for one of her cotton sundresses, all of which were organized by color on their hangers. Because of her fair coloring, saleswomen tended to steer her toward pale shades of pink and blue. But there was that pastel green outfit too.

I’m not convinced about the green. I shouldn’t have let her talk me into that. She pulled one of the pink dresses over her head and looked into her bedroom mirror. I suppose I should make more of an effort—but

do I even know how?

She twisted her hair up and held it back with both hands as she looked into the mirror.

Maybe I’ll fuss with it after it dries. She shook her head and snorted. Who am I kidding? Once I set foot in the restaurant, I won’t have time to think about how I look.

Over time, Holly had also accepted that makeup wouldn’t stand up to Grand Turk’s climate, either. You can always tell a woman is a tourist here by her melting mascara and eyeliner.

Locals did occasionally get done up for a special event, but it was rare. Most women on island presented faces that were scrubbed clean, with only a natural glow from the sun to enhance their looks. The benefit, as Holly saw it, was that this lack of pre- tense made dressing for dinner easy.

By this time of late afternoon, when the day surrendered to dusk, whole families positioned themselves to watch the sun go down. A keen observer of the island would take note of the extreme lengths each household went to in order to create an out- door space for the ceremony of night’s onset. Like something holy.

Everyone in Cockburn Town seemed to be pulled out of their doorways to stare at the horizon and bear witness to another end-of-the-day miracle. And Holly was no different from her neighbors. The sunset was always beautiful, but there were also exceptional nights when the colors in the sky could leave you breathless. Sometimes those nights made her feel joyful. Some- times, when the tall clouds were rushing across the huge expanse of sky, she felt small and alone.

Air pollution was nearly nonexistent on Grand Turk, so there was usually a clear, unobstructed view across the distance—one of the reasons the island had the occasional green flash when the sun set. All that witnessed it were inevitably awestruck. More than once, Holly had scanned the faces of friends at such a moment— illuminated by the flattering light, expressions slack-jawed to the point of striking her as comical. In those moments, she knew they must feel the way she did: blessed by the divine.

She recalled that the great author Jules Verne had written about such an event. He’d said the color was “a most wonderful green, a green which no artist could obtain on his palette . . . the true green of hope.”

The true green of hope.

She let this sink in. The color of my hope for a fresh start here on Grand Turk. Her hope that the small community of expatriates from Britain and Canada might come to accept her. And that the Belongers, who comprised the vast majority of the town, might give her a chance to prove herself. Though Byron’s father’s fam- ily was historically a pillar of the community, she worried they only politely tolerated her. As marginalized as she had been in Vermont, she prayed for something better in her new home on island. I am just going to try to do the next right thing and hope against hope they will warm to me.

Though Verne’s idea about the green flash was marvelous, Holly thought his bold sentiment didn’t quite do the phenomenon justice. The few times she’d witnessed one, it had felt powerfully significant—like a portent, a harbinger of things to come.

She held her breath until the last of the rays of the sun were swallowed by the ocean and darkness took up its reign. Even then she remained rooted as, one by one, the stars slowly popped out and her eyes adjusted to the changing light.

Wild donkeys were the only living creatures on Grand Turk that weren’t watching the sunset in the precious, waning moments at the end of the day. They had noticed long ago that the humans were distracted during this time, so for them it had become an opportunity to steal food off a picnic table or take a drink from their outdoor footbaths. She often heard people hissing, shouting, and clapping their hands to drive them off as the sky turned pink.

She never bothered; she knew from experience the animals would eventually leave on their own, ambling away in their dallying fash- ion. Their loose hips rocked as they made their way up the hill with a punctuated clomp, clomp, clomp to the lighthouse, where there were easier pickings.

At the sound of their braying, Holly’s stomach growled. Sud- denly ravenous, she splayed the fingers of both hands across her tummy. What has Sameera made for dinner tonight?

Copyright © 2023, Mary Kathleen Mehuron, Excerpt from THE BELONGER provided by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint, A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC

THE BELONGER by Mary Kathleen Mehuron

Caribbean-island innkeeper Holly Walker is hunkering down against a monster hurricane. Unfortunately, so is player Lord Anthony Bascombe, a man who excuses his bad behavior by saying he is descended from pirates. Then her grown son, Byron, and his father, Montez—the man she’s never stopped wanting—go missing. Will she ever see them again? What about the many others hurt and dying? And will help ever arrive? With each passing day, Holly’s tumultuous past and the epic storm send her hurtling toward a shattering climax that will change the island—and Holly’s life—forever.

Suspense [Spark Press, On Sale: June 13, 2023, Paperback / e-Book, ISBN: 9781684632060 / ]

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About Mary Kathleen Mehuron

Mary Kathleen Mehuron is a career educator who made a splash with her first book, Fading Past, an autobiographical novel whose protagonist, like Mary Kathleen, grew up Irish-Catholic in New Jersey. The Opposite of Never was Mary Kathleen’s second book, and to finish it, she traveled alone to Havana in January of 2015 during President Obama’s opening of Cuba. Her goal was to experience the city before it became Americanized and write the ending of her book. Though the integration of Americans never really happened, the launch of The Opposite of Never was the catalyst that made her a full time writer.

The Belonger is her third novel, its basis was the loss of her family home to a Category Five hurricane and two of her three sons being caught in a Category Four storm on Grand Turk Island. As the island had no communication with the outside world, she didn’t know if her children or friends were alive or dead. The stories told afterward inspired The Belonger.

Her fourth novel, S. Beach Drag, revisits the New Jersey of her youth. Set in 1972, her Irish Catholic protagonist, Maeve O’Conner dives into the decayed pandemonium of carnival life on the boardwalk of Asbury Park, New Jersey. Grifters, side show entertainers and characters of every ilk abide there. Many, like Bruce Springsteen, are undiscovered artists. Looking for these arresting subjects, Maeve is desperate to win a photography contest that will get her a scholarship to art school in Manhattan.

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