SALT AND HONEY: A Novel

By Carly Rose Smith

When you love someone, you accept the inherent risk of abandonment. Twenty-six-year-old Molly Delmar has learned this lesson time and time again. Fleeing life-threatening danger in Boston, Molly seeks refuge in her childhood home with her estranged father and brother. Amidst rediscovering kinship, Molly collides with her greatest heartbreak of a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dodger Press LLC
• Release date: Feb 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989965618

Carly Rose Smith

Carly Rose Smith is a contemporary romance author residing on Kent Island in Maryland. Although Carly has written creatively most of her life, Salt and Honey is her first published novel. In childhood, Carly was published numerous times in local literary magazines and won state-wide awards for poetry.Carly is a recovering alcoholic, who is preparing to celebrate six years of continuous sobriety. Prior to writing full-time, Carly worked as an Addiction's Counselor after receiving a degree in the same field. Carly enjoys writing contemporary romance which include female characters who overcome adversity. She hopes to empower and inspire women with her books, and to remind them that healing is possible, but rarely linear. Carly enjoys a quiet life as a wife, mother of one, and dog mom to Dodger and Yoshi. Carly hopes to continue releasing books and honing her craft for many years to come.

Book preview

Chapter one

The Greyhound bus smelled like mildew and Doritos. The bus showed symptoms of years of waterlogged coastal travel. I looked out the tear-striped window at the rippling underbelly of the early spring storm, and wondered whether buses rotated routes, or if this bus was sentenced to a lifetime of Atlantic shore treks. If personified, would it dream of arid sunsets across the country or the dry chill of the northeastern states? I thought of Boston, icy gray air reflected in icy gray eyes, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. The familiar feeling of prey noticing a predator, but always a moment too late.

Before my nervous system could take hold, the fragrance of artificial nacho cheese anchored me back to reality, back to the bus. The Dorito-encrusted child beside me was staring again, this time at my scabbed cuticles and tattered fingernails. His eyes trailed to my exposed left forearm, peppered with bruising. The last time I felt him staring, he was transfixed on my face. Not just my face, my eye. The blackened halo had faded on the edges to a sickly green. Blood still stained the white of my eye, drowning out the color of my green iris. I’d done my best to keep my hood up and my auburn hair positioned over the right side of my face. I dozed off during the journey, leaving myself open to the scrutiny of this unclaimed Dorito child.

I had ridden alone since Boston before this kid’s occupation of my neighboring seat. Somewhere in Virginia, he had boarded, leaving behind a teary mother at the station. Spring Break with Dad, I guessed. As the bus pulled from the station, I saw the mother’s face shift as she brought a cell phone to her ear. She snapped at someone on the phone, possibly the father of her child whom she once loved. A marriage reduced to snarling phone calls and an iPad kid on a Greyhound bus alone, inhaling snacks and leering at strangers.

My mom packed band-aids.

The boy blinked up at me, speaking too loudly over his headphones that blared some sort of child-friendly media.

Oh, that’s okay, I responded, my voice thick after hours and hours of silence. He didn’t respond, and instead slid his heavily lashed eyes up and down my body. He blinked at me again, breathing through his mouth…and only his mouth.

Does your dad live at the beach, too? he asked. Spring Break with Dad—I was right.

Yeah, I nodded, he does actually. There was the slightest twinge of soreness on my bottom lip where the split skin had started to mend itself back together.

An hour later, the damp Greyhound pulled into a lackluster lot under the gray North Carolina sky. Doritos-boy who told me his name was Luke—even though I didn’t ask—was bobbing up and down in front of me, desperately scanning the pavement through the windows. I stepped off the bus as the boy ran into the arms of a man who grinned ear-to-ear. As they turned to walk away, the man sent a text, his smile fading as he did so.

I pulled my eyes from the scene, from the little boy whom I’d never see again, and raked the parking lot for the old blue pickup truck. It wasn’t there. The clouds above sent a cool mist downward, sweeping everything earth-side. It was still off-season, and those cool spring days were common. I continued my search for the blue truck and for him. I assumed he had forgotten until I heard a familiar voice call from my left.

Molly! I turned to see my father, standing in front of a vehicle I didn’t recognize. A new, shiny Silverado had replaced the one he’d had a decade ago.

I watched my father’s face as my right side came into view. My eye, the shadow bruising on my cheekbone. He took me in, his broken daughter, fifteen pounds too light, shrouded by a black hoodie three times her size. I was twenty-six then, but he hadn’t seen me since I was a teenager. A parade of emotion flashed in his eyes; horror, anger, sadness… and relief.

Hi, honey.

Hi, Dad. I let him hug me, holding my breath to cut the life force to the awkward tension. We didn’t need to say it. There was nothing else to say.

I climbed into the pristine truck; it filled my nose with that dealership-fresh scent. We didn’t speak the whole forty-five-minute drive to The Narrows, back to my mother’s abandoned ashen empire.

Chapter two

In our final days on The Narrows, my mother was more ghost-like than human. Even at five years old I knew the end was nigh, that my life as I’d known it was inches from cascading over the ridge of a cliff. It was early, and the sky was a pristine cornflower. Dad's presence on his fishing boat was consistent during those last months. Jay was elsewhere, most likely in the dunes with his pack of jackal-like comrades, whooping boisterously while shooting BB guns at birds or hurling firecrackers at half buried logs.

They buzzed around the peninsula like insects, gangly and scatterbrained, seeking mischief and laughter. My brother Jay would be the front-runner, casting a bottle rocket or leaping from the tree. Bobby and Rusty followed wherever Jay went, regarding him as a captain of sorts, the loudest and wildest of the brood.

Then there was Parker, quiet and kind and assessing, always a few paces behind, always the anchor to Jay’s wind-filled sails. Parker Ellis was a force of nature, something not of the earth, something brighter, better, ethereal. At least to me, he was the center of the universe, a golden sun whose light I strove to absorb into my very bones. Like flame to moth, Parker Ellis consumed me.

Mom was in the bay window, in her robe, a towel wrapped tight around her head, a Newport 100 dangling from her perfectly manicured, slender fingers. Blood-red nails shone through the blue smoke of her cigarette. Her skin was tan and smooth. She was hauntingly beautiful. I stood and watched her take a drag, assuming she was unaware of my presence.

Molly, she sighed, eyes fixed on the sea, does a parrot know it’s a prisoner, or does it watch out the window and assume it’s in a palace?

I didn’t know how to respond, nor did I understand the question. At five years old, I had only seen one parrot, content in my schoolmate's foyer.

Weak men, baby… she hit her smoke, they’ll build you an empire out of words… but words are like ash, useless, and they leave a wicked stain. She flicked her cigarette, sending to the floor a tendril of ash thicker than her Boston accent.

Weak Men.

The words played again and again in my head three weeks later as I watched my father’s figure disappear behind the brush that lined the gravel driveway. My legs stuck to the leather seats of Mom’s station wagon.

Weak Men.

I heard it, sharp and cutting in my mind as my older brother wept in the seat next to me. A stream of snot and tears dripped onto his T-shirt while the stereo caught the signal.

Please, Mommy, we can’t leave, Jay cried, his voice raspy between sobs.

In response, she extended that perfectly manicured hand to the radio dial, and Fleetwood Mac drowned out the sounds of my brother’s despair. The Chain was now the soundtrack to the end of my life as we knew it.

Weak. Men.

Chapter three

The winding gravel drive hadn’t changed. Gnarled brush still claimed the bend in the road, cutting the house from view. As we rounded the last corner, I saw it, modest and strong. They recently updated the wrap-around porch, and the stairs fanned down to the spot where I had watched my father disappear from view all those years ago. The small lot had another new truck.

Dad pulled the Silverado directly in front of the porch steps, threw it in park, and cut the engine. Silence sat between us. I sensed his unspoken thoughts, though I knew he wouldn't share them. A decade’s worth of words hung between us, but like my father’s, they remained trapped behind my clenched jaw. Eventually, the silence was too heavy to bear.

I like the new porch, I mumbled.

Thanks, he hesitated. We had it redone about five years ago.

Oh? It looks…like... very new.

Not much traffic, I guess, he said with a sad smile.

Silence again, thick as a wool blanket.

Is Jay home? I inquired, shifting my attention to the front door.

Well, his truck’s here… he said the water was no good today. It looked fine to me, but it ain’t every day your sister comes home.

Home. Is that what this was to me? A place I hadn’t visited in a decade, the place I spent years trying to cleanse from my heart. I felt my chest tighten, conflicting worlds battling internally. Dad pulled the door handle and climbed out, and I followed.

Walking up the stairs, I placed my sneakers under the unsteady weight of my fragile frame. The dark rich wood caught my eye, and how the planks didn’t give at all under my feet. The old stairs, as I remembered them, always groaned underfoot regardless of the walker’s weight. These stairs were sturdy, unyielding, and I envied their stability. As I reached the top step of the sprawling porch, I noticed the house itself. Under the steely gray evening clouds, I had mistaken the color of the siding to be the same ivory it always had been. I realized, though, under the glow from the overhead light, that they had painted the siding a pale blue. As my father opened the front door, I noticed that someone had not painted the siding at all but replaced it entirely. The front door was new, now tan and paned in stained glass. A doorbell camera perched beneath the industrial-style light.

We passed through the foyer and saw that someone also remodeled it. My heart was pounding in my ears, distracting me from identifying the differences between this new entranceway and that of my childhood. I heard boots on hardwood approaching.

Jay rounded the corner. My older brother, the only real friend I’d ever had. It wasn’t as if we hadn’t talked, but I hadn’t seen him in years. I last saw him three years ago in Boston. His head was shaved then, and I hadn’t hollowed out yet. I was still a semi-complete person the last time our eyes met. He stopped under the archway to the kitchen, his stance rigid with anxiety. I watched him freeze in place, his eyes taking in the shell of a woman I had become. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, trying to keep his composure.

Hey, I said.

I watched his face flush and his eyes flood with pain.

Hey, Mole, he answered, using the childhood nickname he had given me.

His voice broke, and tears filled his green eyes. Our eyes were the only physical trait that linked us. Every other feature opposed each other. He pushed his shoulder-length blonde hair from his face and closed the gap between us with quickened strides. I met him halfway, falling into his arms. My brother, my only genuine sense of the word home. Maybe that is what Dad had meant when he said I’d returned home, a word that felt foreign in my mouth.

Jay cried, and I felt his protective arms holding me steady. I hadn’t slept in days, but it felt like months. I hadn’t cried either. Not in the hospital, not under my mother’s scrutiny, not when I fled. Not even now, as I felt a lifetime of pain welling up inside of me, a wave so powerful and massive it threatened to wash away every cell of my being. As my brother held me, the pain lurched and lapped at my ribcage, my core, screaming to be set free. But I couldn’t cry.

Not for the person I had been, for my absence on The Narrows, for my parent’s broken marriage. I couldn’t cry for the monster I’d left behind, or how the Boston skyline did nothing but make me sick. The storm raging in my core brought exhaustion that enveloped me like a dust storm, blocking out anything else. I felt my weight give, and I felt Jay lift me with ease.

I don’t remember the walk to my childhood bedroom, on the second floor, second door on the left. I'm unsure if I said anything, glanced around, or thanked him. My tired body hit the double bed, and sleep cascaded over me. It devoured me whole.

For the next three days, I slipped in and out of fractured sleep. Dreams of being chased jolted me awake, then eased back to sleep by thoughts of a boy with tan shoulders and honey eyes. He was running under a swarm of seagulls, as the sun turned his chocolate hair caramel, the wave-break nipping at his ankles.

Chapter four

As teenagers, we used to live for the thrill of the returning tourists and seasonal workers. Cheap beach houses and condos separated The Narrows from prime vacation rentals. They would fill with renters coming to work at the restaurants and shops for the summer. Jay, his band of companions, and I would race our bikes down the winding road leading out of The Narrows. The early season salt air whipping our hair and cheeks, not yet warmed by summer sun.

We would slide to a stop at the sandy outcropping overlooking the seasonal housing. We’d watch the college-aged kids pouring out of vans and pickup trucks, pulling boxes of personal items into the cheap condos and homes. The eighteen to twenty-something’s would staff shore restaurants and shops for the next three-four months. Jay and his friends would talk loudly about the girls in bikinis shot gunning beers off the front porches, or lighting joints by the fire-pits. My last summer on The Narrows was the year I had turned sixteen. I stood straddling my bike, wearing jean shorts and a blush-pink bathing suit top that my chest refused to fill.

Look at the rack on red-top there, Jay said, glancing back at his friend Bobby.

Jay and his friends were now seventeen and eighteen and had all outgrown their pubescent acne and cracking voices. The boys had changed drastically in the last two years. I almost didn't recognize them when I arrived on The Narrows three weeks ago. To be fair, none of them really recognized me either. I had come into myself over the last two years. At sixteen I was no longer the little girl they used to fling sand crabs at and catch fireflies with.

Holy shit, I call the blonde one! Bobby replied.

Which blonde one, you idiot? Rusty laughed. There are about nine of them down there.

"You know which blonde one you fuckin’ idiot, the blonde one."

Oh yeah, that narrows it down. Not that it even matters. You ain’t got a shot, man.

Yeah? well your mom would disagree, Bobby retorted, spitting casually over his handlebars.

Ew dude, watch my fucking foot, Jay said, scowling back at Bobby.

Jay, you’re a pussy, Bobby answered. I tried not to laugh. I had missed this group of boys I had grown up with. That’s when Park leaned over to me, his breath sweet and minty.

These days, this is actually them being polite, he whispered, a smile tugging at the right side of his mouth, his gold eyes focused on mine. I smiled and felt my face flush.

Ever since I had arrived for the summer, Parker had stayed closer to my side than his friends. We were all always together, but Park focused on me. Every time he looked at me, I could feel my skin turning crimson, and I found it increasingly difficult to hold eye contact with him, my stomach flipping each time. This time, when I pulled my eyes back to him after nervously glancing away, I caught him staring at my chest, the same chest I was so self-conscious of. He looked up and realized I had caught him, and now his skin flushed.

You’re beautiful, Molly. It was the first time a boy had ever said that to me. My tongue felt like it was swelling into my throat. Before I could respond, I heard my brother’s voice.

Wow Park, he said, eyebrows raised, I didn't realize you were so cringe-worthy.

Rusty and Bobby joined Jay in laughter.

Oh, are we just pretending that Park hasn’t been in love with Mol since age, like, five? Bobby asked. Not waiting for a response, he continued, Come on, let’s hit the beach. It’s getting hot as fuck. He kicked off the sandy dirt and pumped back to The Narrows. Jay followed, raising his eyebrows up and down at me as fast as he could, and Rusty fell in line behind Jay.

Five years old is an overstatement, Park commented, squinting at the ocean while running his hand through his hair. Without waiting for a response, he kicked off and followed his friends, looking back over his shoulder to ensure I would follow.

I did. Back then, I would’ve followed him anywhere.

When we made it back to the beach, I wasted no time in diving into the icy surf alongside my brother and his friends. Our love for the ocean started when we were young. Things had shifted slightly this year, and instead of playing games, we floated around, talking about life. It felt good to be heard and seen, to engage in bigger conversations.

After a while of swimming, we exited the water. The boys grabbed their skim boards from the sand. All of them except Park, who sat on the sand beside me.

Don’t you want to board with them?

Nah, he bumped my shoulder with his, I’m happy here.

Jay sprinted toward the surf, throwing his board down and gliding across the water into an oncoming wave. When his board hit, he separated from it and flew into the air. I watched as he flipped mid-air before spiraling down to the water. His blonde head emerged a moment later. Bobby and Rusty followed suit, whooping and sprinting, gliding and flipping into the sea. I smiled, enjoying the warm sun on my damp skin, the feeling of Park beside me. I glanced over at him to find him already staring at me, the sun almost illuminating his light brown eyes.

What is it? I asked, my face reddening.

Just you, he smiled. His eyes dipped to my lips, hovered there momentarily, then snapped back to my eyes. Come here, I want to show you something. He stood and then reached down, offering me his hand. I took it and stood alongside him. He didn’t drop my hand as he led me up the beach, and every cell in my body burned with excitement.

We made it to the dunes, coated in seagrass, where he led me behind one of them, blocking us from view from the rest of the gang. Up ahead, I noticed four posts surrounded by neon tape in the shape of a square. Park glanced at me, still smiling, as he led me to the edge of the square.

Sea turtle nest, he explained, I know they’re your favorite.

When are they going to hatch? I asked excitedly.

Not sure, but one ranger said in the next couple of weeks. Do you want to come here at dark and watch with me?

Really?

Yeah, we can ask your dad, it’s not like we’ll be alone, so I think he’ll say yes.

Who else will be here?

Probably wildlife rangers, this old couple who are obsessed with turtle conservation. You know, nerds like you.

Hey, I am not a nerd! I laughed and playfully punched at his stomach.

When my knuckles grazed across his bare skin, the tight muscle underneath, an involuntary sound escaped from my throat. I looked up at him slowly, without removing my hand. He looked down at me with glazed eyes, a smug smile on his lips.

I will say though, his voice was low as he dipped his head down, closer to mine, I’d much rather have you all to myself.

My eyes darted between his, my breath catching in my throat as his face got closer and closer in slow motion. I closed my eyes when his mouth was only inches from mine, then opened them again, determined not to miss a second of it. Then his soft lips were on mine, gentle and sweet. I leaned into him, wanting more, but he pulled back only slightly. He opened his eyes and searched mine.

Is this okay? he whispered. I nodded.

Then his lips were on mine again, with more urgency this time. I felt his tongue slip into the seam of my lips, prompting them apart. Then his tongue was in my mouth, gliding along my own, and every inch of me burned. The kiss ended after what seemed like an eternity and a moment. His hand slid up my jaw and into my hair as he smiled.

I’ve wanted to do that for as long as I can remember, he grinned.

That was my first kiss, I said in a rush, embarrassed. Sorry if it was bad.

Wait, really? he asked, eyebrows raised.

Yeah, is that okay?

Of course, it’s okay, Mol.

So, was it bad? I asked, picking at my cuticles.

Park placed a kiss on my forehead before responding.

It was perfect, Molly. You’re perfect.

We stared at each other for a long moment, my heart exploding with happiness. Then he took my hand and led me back to the water’s edge. I watched the guys flipping into the surf, absolutely smitten and exhilarated by the thought that Park and I shared a secret.

Chapter five

The night our mother took us from our home, she hadn’t told us where we were going. We eventually learned we were in the suburbs of Boston, which were impossibly sprawling, impossibly immaculate, and impossibly terrifying. Our station wagon rolled past stunning brick mansions boasting tediously tended yards and gardens. Every street was empty, and so was the sky. The nearby glow of the city washed out any trace of the stars. My ribcage ached with wanting those stars, the same stars I knew from North Carolina. Jay had drifted to sleep. His Walkman splayed on the seat between us. My legs cramped and my eyes felt full of sand, unable to follow my brother into sleep.

My mother rolled to a stop at a stop sign and lit another cigarette. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, staring ahead. After what seemed like hours, she rolled through the intersection, and I watched her fling her pack of Newports out the window. They tumbled onto the street and landed flat. I made eye contact with her in the rearview, but she said nothing, just inhaled again.

No music from the radio played now, just a deafening silence beneath the rumble of the engine.

We were in a neighborhood now, although the word neighborhood didn’t quite explain the handful of estates that continued block after block. My mother slowed in front of a gate on the right, flicked her cigarette out of the window, and eased through the open entrance. Jay stirred at last, bleary-eyed and sad. No one spoke as we pulled down the perfectly paved and manicured drive that seemed to stretch for miles. Finally, a massive white rectangle eased into view. A large pavement circle looped in front of the most extravagant front door I had ever seen.

Okay kids, my mother said, mind your manners, and speak only when spoken to. For the first time in my life, I heard fear in my mother’s voice, her eyes darting between us in the rearview. We silently nodded in response.

After checking herself in the mirror, she slid from the driver’s seat, and my brother and I followed. I slung my pink My Little Pony backpack over my shoulder and went to the back of the wagon, waiting for my mother to open the door to where our luggage sat. The shards of our entire lives crammed into mismatched suitcases. She didn’t come around the car, and instead began walking toward the door. Confused, we followed. She turned after a few paces, as if remembering we were there. Kneeling down, she carefully fixed my red-brown hair. She reached to do the same for Jay, but he jerked away from her hand with such venom I almost gasped.

Shouldn’t we get our stuff, Mom? I asked.

No, someone else will, she answered blankly, her eyes fixed on the front door.

I took a moment to digest the image of the mansion and realized it wasn’t a rectangle at all, but one very large rectangle flanked by two smaller ones. I thought of my fantasy book collection at home, and how those off-shoots of grand buildings were referred to as wings.

Mommy, does this house have wings? I asked, following her up the enormously wide pathway.

Molly, what don’t you understand about ‘speak only when spoken to?’

I recoiled into myself, and I felt Jay glance at me. He reached over so subtly, and took my hand, squeezed it twice, then let it drop.

My mother climbed the shallow steps to the front double doors, but before she could knock, they split and opened inward. Golden light blinded me, reflecting off bright white floors. I squinted to make out a tall and thin man wearing a suit. He had dark receding hair and a pale, plain face.

Ms. Veronica, his voice was low, how wonderful it is to see you. A faint smile toyed at the corner of his mouth.

Gerald, she whispered, same to you. She continued through the doorway, into the room brighter than the sun. The man redirected his eyes to Jay and me, assessing us with a quick, blank gaze. He said nothing as we followed our mother over the threshold.

Standing in the center of the room, made almost entirely of white marble, was an older couple, both dressed in thick maroon bathrobes. Their feet were clad in pristine moccasins, and their faces were stone. My mother halted, and we followed.

Hi, Mom…. Hi, Daddy. My mother’s voice was thin, weak, and shaky. There was a long, frigid silence. The woman looked my mother up and down over and over, slowly, calculating, cruelly. The man broke the silence.

Hello, sweetheart. Although he used a word of affection, his tone was icy and indifferent. My mother walked forward, extending her arms to him. He embraced her lightly, stiffly.

I’m—I’m so sorry, Mom whispered.

I know, dear, I know.

Mother then turned her attention to the woman, who hadn’t moved an inch, let alone a muscle.

Mom, she said, desperately, thank you for letting me come home.

The woman didn’t answer, and instead slowly turned that terrifying gaze to us, standing stupidly in the middle of the room, forgotten. My mom turned her head to look at us, as did the man she had called Daddy.

At that moment I understood something I wasn’t meant to understand then, and I know Jay did too. It hung in the air like smoke, threatening to suffocate every person there.

My mother belonged here—and Jay and I did not. The three adults scrutinized us, the stain from Veronica’s poor teenage choices. The stain on their name, their pedigree, their fortune. I inched closer to my brother, using him as an anchor as the tidal wave of discomfort crashed upon us. The silence rolled on and on and on, no one sparing us by uttering a word. I was suddenly aware of the tiny holes in the canvas of my Converse sneakers, the bleach stain on the T-shirt my brother was wearing from Good Will, the broken zipper on my backpack, and the sand that undoubtedly clung to our scalps and nails. The adults were too, and it showed. They wore their awareness and subsequent disapproval like a shield, blocking them from the virus that was two small children in a foreign world. It was us, and it was them. After an eternity, my mother acted as a buffer, but only as strong as plastic against a hurricane.

Mom, Dad… she said, taking a few steps toward us, These are my children… Molly and Jay.

Jay? the man asked. What’s that short for? He directed the question to my mother as if Jay might be some alien species.

Nothing, she replied, it’s just Jay.

No doubt that fool Andrew’s idea to name his only son such a daft and simple name. The woman spoke for the first time. I knew he was tasteless, but had prayed he was at least civilized.

I felt my brother’s rage swell. I glanced over to see him turning red from the base of his throat to the top of his ears.

My dad is not a fool, he hissed. The room went quiet, but after a moment, his response was met with a shrill laugh from the robed woman.

Lovely, Veronica, just lovely. The woman spat. She turned on her heel and made her way out of the room. Hot tears spilled down my brother’s face, the rage fusing with despair and confusion.

Come now, the man snapped, a boy your age should not be weeping like a small girl. Hell, even your sister has greater composure.

My eyes darted between my brother and my mom, silently begging her to save us. But she said nothing, only stared at the marble floor, her face red.

We’ll make a man of you yet, He said after a handful of excruciating moments. My brother roughly wiped the tears from his eyes, but never stopped staring at the man.

You’ve got a lot of work to do, Veronica. You don’t have the slightest idea what people have said, what they will say. My mother didn’t answer. Her gaze remained on the floor. That’s enough for tonight. Gerald will take you to your rooms. He