The Art of Catching Lightning Bugs

By Jillian Waldhart

Emi Blakely lives a rather comfortable life as an interior designer in the big city, but her passion and direction have admittedly dwindled. If she’s being totally honest with herself, she has perhaps procrastinated, maybe just a little bit, when it comes to doing anything about it.

When she is forced to return to her family’s cottage for the first time since her father’s death, she is inspired to take a closer look at the life she’s living. Will she sacrifice the security of staying comfortable in her stagnant life, or will she overcome her fears and allow herself to make an immense leap of faith? An innocently romantic love story, The Art of Catching Lightning Bugs is one young woman’s journey to self-discovery as she learns to follow the peace of God and trust in His perfect timing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798385009954

Jillian Waldhart

Jillian Waldhart is a homeschool mom and dance studio owner, living her best life in Michigan with her three young children and her husband Ryan. The Art of Catching Lightning Bugs is her first book, to which she hopes to eventually pen a sequel. She loves to take road trips with her family, and she dreams of having a second home to share with loved ones someday—preferably on a beach in a small town.

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Copyright © 2023 Jillian Waldhart.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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844-714-3454

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0996-1 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0997-8 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0995-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023919278

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/11/2023

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1

E milyn Blakely was bombarded with a cocktail of emotions as her plane finally rolled to a stop. She drew in a breath and released it through puffed cheeks while she eagerly awaited the termination of the seatbelt light. She side -e yed her neighbor, who had already carelessly broken that rule. A piece of her wished she could be so da ring.

Emi’s knee bounced in anticipation as she peeked around, accidentally locking gazes with the only other passenger who seemed remotely within her age bracket. She noticed his eyes were the same shade of green as hers—a sanctioned inheritance from her father. He tipped a smile at her, and she looked away quickly, heat blooming in her cheeks.

Emi released herself from the restraint as soon as the light dinged off. Normally, she would wait for her fellow travelers to pass before even attempting to exit. But with her sudden onset of nausea, she broke her usual protocol and scooted directly into the aisle.

She gave her best attempt at heaving her carry-on from the overhead bin, to no avail. Of course, Mr. Eye-Contact was right there to assist with her baggage retrieval.

Thank you, Emi said with a curtsey.

She turned away and touched two fingers to her forehead. She rolled her eyes and silently scolded herself. Good gravy, Emi. A curtsey? She forced herself to accept that her imagination was likely overdramatizing the debacle, and she carried on.

She moved through the cabin and carefully descended the mobile staircase that had been rolled up to the door. It had to be at least 30 degrees warmer than it had been when she’d boarded the aircraft. She regretted her decision to wear joggers and hiked them up to her knees—not even caring if she looked like some sort of goon. Her heart fluttered as her yellow sneaker touched the ground of the place she had held so near and dear as a child.

Emi counted the years since she had last visited Marsh Cove. Well over a decade.

Yowza.

The Blakely family had spent every summer there when she was growing up. Some Christmases. Most spring breaks. She felt instant remorse, having taken it for granted for all these years. She’d failed to make it a priority, and her heart ached as she contemplated saying goodbye to it forever.

Emi proceeded to the terminal door—the smell of musty air conditioning flooding her with both relief and an odd sense of nostalgia as it whizzed open. She rolled her tie-dye suitcase over the threshold, and it clunked rhythmically along the tiled floor.

She eyed the faded yellow walls adorned with thick white trim. Heavy curtains hung over the windows, and a chipped mural of live oak trees provided a backdrop for the lone baggage claim carousel.

Emi found it rather charming the way they’d attempted to make the little airport look like some sort of Southern nature preserve, but ceiling tiles were stained, and fluorescent bulbs flickered.

While she may or may not have needed to sit on her suitcase to zip it up, Emi had successfully packed in only a carry-on. So she bypassed the baggage carousel and headed out into the warm Carolina air.

Emi parked her luggage on the curb and squinted against the sunshine as she searched for a familiar face. She hoisted her fallen pant legs back up to her knees and knotted her long, golden-brown hair on top of her head. She spied a hand waving vigorously from the sunroof of a little white SUV.

Emi’s mother popped out of the driver’s seat and shrieked, Ahh! My baby is finally here! She scuffled her feet, her arms sticking straight up in the air.

Emi sighed with relief at the sight of her mom. She looked radiant as ever.

Marilyn. She lived up to the name. Her frizzy gray hair fell to her collarbones, contrasting her shockingly youthful skin, and her exuberance went unmatched.

Marilyn and Emi ran to each other and collided, swaying quickly back and forth while they both squealed.

Emi soaked in her mother’s presence. While they spoke on the phone most days, it had been months since they had seen each other in person. Emi had missed these hugs more than she realized.

They pulled away, and Marilyn cupped Emi’s face in her hands, rubbing her cheeks with her thumbs. Oh, my sweet Emilyn, she said, pulling her in for one more hug. Whew! Okay.

She wiped away her happy tears and threw the suitcase into the trunk with impressive force for such a tiny woman.

Honey girl, is this all you packed? For two weeks?

That’s it, Mom, Emi admitted. I’m not planning on doing anything fancy.

Marilyn made a face as they both climbed into the vehicle.

Emi groaned dramatically as she sat. Why does flying wipe me right out? she asked, buckling her seatbelt. I can’t believe we used to drive this trip so often. It’s so far from New York, let alone from Michigan.

Aw, you kids did so well in the car, though, Marilyn replied. Well, usually, she added. The drive was worth it though, right? The journey is one of the best parts! We always enjoyed the journey.

Mm, we did, Emi agreed. She looked out the window and rolled it down, breathing in the fresh air. You were right, Momma. I’m not gonna lie; I was kinda dreading this trip. But it is good to be here.

She smiled and reached over to squeeze her mom’s arm. And it’s really good to see you, of course.

Marilyn grinned and placed her sunglasses on her pointed little nose—the one physical trait she had passed down to Emi. You have no idea how absolutely elated I am to have you and Leo here for a couple of weeks. It has been forever. I’m relieved to have the extra help with getting the house ready too.

Emi shared the sentiments. She was equally as eager to see her big brother.

Marilyn looked over her glasses and started her GPS, even though she didn’t need it. She checked her blind spot and set off for home.

2

S teve Blakely’s adventuresome spirit was among a multitude of things Marilyn admired about him. Having shared a love of travel—and being employed by the same international airline—much of their first years of marriage had been spent venturing over seas.

But once Leo was born, their trips ended. Steve found a job that kept him local, and Marilyn stayed home with their son. When the stagnancy threatened them with an intense case of cabin fever, Steve packed his little family into the car, and they headed west until they reached the mountains of Montana.

From then on, they never stopped exploring. Even after baby Emi came along, traveling the country continued to be a priority—and they always drove.

The journey is most of the fun! they’d say.

During one particular trip, just to find some sunshine, they’d stumbled upon a place that undoubtedly stole their hearts. And soon thereafter, the family of four planted a second set of roots.

Marsh Cove, South Carolina, was a small coastal town off the beaten path—a quaint, hidden gem full of local homebodies.

It was the kind of town where the streets and buildings boasted coordinated decorations, and everybody knew everybody (and their business). It was a place where the calls of the gulls welcomed you, and the briny sea air was refreshing and invigorating.

A boulevard which jutted inland was lined with enormous live oaks and evenly spaced American flags. The median was plagued with brightly colored perennials and an impressive number of well-established hydrangea bushes. The road followed the shoreline of a small inlet, dotted with whimsical beach houses—most of which had sizable front porches and screen doors that slapped shut.

Even the gas station was adorably staged with overflowing window boxes and a breathtaking view of the wharf on the ocean. A small general store topped with a cupola sat adjacent to a modestly sized marina, which housed several boats, mainly used for fishing and shrimping.

Emi drifted into a memory of her first time in Marsh Cove, all those years ago. Her mother sashayed her from the gas pump into the station, where the attendant was notably very kind. Mom was sure to point that out as they paraded back to the car after their potty break.

Little Leo’s face contorted as he sounded out a word on a sign. Mom? What’s a … wharrrf?

Hmm … well, do you see that big cement dock right there?

Uh huh.

I believe that’s the wharf.

What do you think, should we go check it out? Dad asked.

Yeah! the kids shouted in unison. Emi jumped up and down out of rhythm while Leo presented two thumbs up and a karate kick. Dad climbed into the car to park it away from the gas pump before they made their way out onto the concrete slab.

"Wharf time, wharf time," the family chanted, marching hand-in-hand.

They saw fishing boats, crabbing boats, shrimp boats, and a few small Hobie Cats tied to the docks in the marina. Crab traps were stacked messily along an edge of the wharf, and a tiny building stood in the middle. Fish nets hung on its outside walls, over maps of the salt marshes, which seemed to stretch south for miles. A tall bridge just to the north led sporadic traffic to the other side of the cove.

The bells on the boats dinged as they gently swayed, and the stays of the catamarans tapped eagerly against their masts. The kids chased an unsuspecting pelican off the edge of the wharf, and Dad reminded them to be kind to the birds as he wrapped an arm around his wife. A barefooted boy—about Leo’s age—fished from a dock and flashed a dimpled smile in their direction.

What are you thinking about, sweetheart? Marilyn’s voice broke through the memory.

Emi opened her eyes and glanced at her mom. I was just thinking about when we first found this place. We were out on the wharf, and you and Dad said you were going to buy a second house here. She scoffed and added, But you guys said that everywhere we went.

Ha! We were always dreaming, weren’t we? We were so young and naïve, buying a beach house sight-unseen. But we had such a peace about it, we knew that was the time we really meant it.

Marilyn smiled, and Emi arched a brow, laughing at the thought. Her parents were barely older than she was now when they had bought the place.

I’ve never actually thought about the logistics of buying a cottage a thousand miles away from home. It must’ve been chaotic. You guys were kinda kooky. Emi watched the wind whip wildly through her mom’s hair.

Yep! Totally kooky, Marilyn agreed enthusiastically. We could’ve let it be chaotic, absolutely. But we decided to enjoy every bit of the process.

Emi sighed. I wish you didn’t have to sell it.

Aw, me too, baby. Trust me, I will be soaking in our last days here.

Emi toyed with the slim, gold band on her middle finger—a gift from her father on her fourteenth birthday. She slumped in her seat and turned her gaze out the window. She tucked a lock of stray hair behind her ear. I miss Dad.

Oh, honey, Marilyn coaxed. I do too. Every day. She flicked her turn signal and slowed into a turn where a small wooden sign welcomed them to Marsh Cove.

Leo and I should’ve coordinated flights a little better, so you wouldn’t have to make two trips to the airport, huh? I’m sorry, I didn’t even consider it.

Oh, that stinker didn’t tell you he ended up driving? He’s already here.

What? He drove all the way here? By himself? From Montana?

Mm. You know how he loves his road trips.

Emi nodded. Yeah, I guess. She used to love road trips too.

He took a few days to get out here. He stopped along the way and slept on top of his new truck. Some big Toyota thingy.

He got a new truck? And he slept on top of it?

"Oh, wait til you see it. He’s got a tent on top of it that just unfolds. It’s actually pretty neat. It’s very Leo. Very vagabond."

Huh. Emi quickly considered adding neat to her everyday vocabulary before deciding against it. Only Mom could pull that one off. So Leo will text me to tell me he ate a burrito for lunch, but he fails to mention that he’s driving a new truck across the country? Typical.

She brought her feet up to the glove box and stuck her hand out the window. She felt the wind consume it as the mossy oaks zipped by, one at a time.

Bliss.

A pang of regret hit her in the gut as she was reminded of her lengthy absence and the reason for her return.

3

"H ey, sis!"

Heyyy, bro.

Leo and Emi squeezed each other tight on the front porch while Marilyn lugged Emi’s suitcase to her basement bedroom.

Why didn’t you tell me you were driving alone? Emi asked as she swayed in her big brother’s arms. She gently pushed him away and thwapped him on the chest. You should’ve come and picked me up.

Leo laughed, tousling his blond curls. Emi, New York is like fourteen hours out of the way.

Bah, so what? What’s another fourteen hours? I’m just kidding. I would’ve said no anyway. So. Mom told me you have some ‘big Toyota thingy’ with a ‘tent thingy’ or whatever, she said, using overly dramatic hand gestures.

Well, it’s a Ford, but yes. Leo clapped his hands together and grinned. Wanna see it?

Emi’s eyelids drooped. It sounds very exciting. She followed him out to the side of the garage.

Leo pushed the button on his key fob, illuminating the headlights of a burnt-orange Bronco with matte black features. Watch this. It’s sweet. He climbed up to unfold the black tote on the roof. In three swift motions, he had it set up into a tent. He flipped a switch, and a little motor whizzed, inflating an air mattress.

Okay, this is actually kind of cool, Emi admitted.

Right? Leo beamed.

It’s like a free little hotel room anywhere you want.

Exactly.

Except for the lack of space … and access to a shower. Emi scrunched her face. Now I’m really glad you didn’t pick me up.

Ha. Ahh, I’ve missed ya, Squirt, Leo said, wrapping his arm around Emi’s neck. It’s good to see you back here, finally. You doin’ okay with it?

Emi let out a breath. Yeah, I’m okay. It’s good to be here. How about these, uh … cosmetic mishaps, though? She cringed as she nodded toward the old beach house. Yeesh.

She tipped her head and eyed the faded gray shake siding, which wrapped around the little cape cod. A cedar shutter on the lone attic gable hung rather crookedly, and the porch swing had taken on a new identity as a very low, very stationary bench.

But the sun was dipping beside them, casting a masterpiece of orange and pink onto the windows, making the house look enchanting—regardless of all its little wounds.

Yeah. We’ve got some work to do, huh? Leo asked rhetorically.

Emi clenched her teeth and pulled the corners of her mouth down as she looked up at him, the veins in her neck protruding.

C’mon, Leo said, slugging Emi hard in the arm. I’m starving.

Ow, Emi complained, rubbing the point of impact. She had forgotten how often he did that. She followed Leo, hustling to squeeze inside the door before it could swing shut on her. Leo was a true gentleman to most people, but to Emi, he was a typical older brother: pesky 99 percent of the time until he needed to be protective.

As soon as Emi entered the foyer, which boasted a very ugly pendant light hanging from the ceiling; she felt like no time had passed since her last visit.

The view of the beach through the back of the living room was enough to make anyone want to stay forever.

Careful.

The solid wood floors still wore the same scars as they did the first time she ever laid eyes on them. A few more marks had accidentally been carved in since then, of course. She recalled one specific dent being left by Leo kickflipping on a skateboard.

Leonardo! Marilyn had shouted. Take it outside, sir.

Emi smiled at the memory. She maneuvered around the mahogany coffee table and went over to the mismatched oak armoire in the corner. It still housed stacks of tattered old books and board games aching to be read and played. She thumbed through a copy of Anne of Green Gables and wiped a line of dust off the top of a torn Scattergories box. She grimaced at it and wiped it on her sweatpants while heaving the slider door open. She stepped onto the balcony and tripped over the slightly rusted patio furniture, producing an obnoxious clang of metal-on-metal.

Y’all right out there? Leo’s voice called from the kitchen.

Emi pushed the loose hairs out of her face. All good. She heard his and Marilyn’s muted conversation resume with no further questions. Clumsiness wasn’t exactly a foreign attribute of Emi’s.

An orchestra of crickets accompanied the ebb and flow of the waves gently lapping on the beach, and the last remnants of sunlight disintegrated into the horizon. Even just at twilight, the stars were exceptionally more abundant than Emi had remembered. She pushed back unwanted emotion and stepped inside to join her family before it could get the best of her.

Emi’s eyes fixated on an outdated fluorescent fixture bulging from the kitchen ceiling. She panned to the dark oak cabinets, which begged for a fresh coat of paint and new hardware. The yellowed linoleum floor desperately needed replacing, and the newer appliances and updated granite countertops sat largely out of place. But she noted positively that those were two big boxes already checked off their to-do list.

While her interior designer heart was bursting at the seams over this project, Emi couldn’t deny that it would be rather mournful to witness the familiar ugliness disappear.

Marilyn wiped her hands on a tea towel and slung it over her shoulder. The scent of old wood and salty air mingled with the delicious smell of whatever was in the oven.

Emi sat on a wobbly stool at the kitchen island and stooped her chin on her palm while Leo squeezed past his mom to steal a carrot stick from the counter.

I hope you two are hungry, Marilyn said.

Starving, Emi replied. What ya makin’? It smells good.

Beach tacos, baby! Marilyn shouted, pumping two fists in the air.

Leo snatched another carrot, getting entirely in her way.

My goodness, Lee. Just take the veggies to the island.

Sorry, Momma. He lifted the platter over their heads and made his way around to sit next to Emi. Alexa, he hollered. Play John Mayer radio.

Emi slid the vegetables closer to herself and joined the munching, scooping a heap of hummus onto her cucumber slice. Yum. I’ve missed your hummus, Mom. And your beach tacos. The music started, and the three of them bobbed their heads to the beat.