“Yes, of course. But remember my grandparents found these over the course of many decades. And for all I know it started out even before them. This cottage was here even before Poppa was born.”
“When was it built?”
She considered this. “Well, Poppa was close to ninety when he died . . . so I suppose the cottage could’ve been built around a hundred years ago.”
“Where’s my room?”
“Upstairs—the one on the right—with a bed.”
“There are two bedrooms upstairs?”
“Yes, but the other one’s being used for storage.” She sighed to think how long it might take her to sort through all the junk she’d spied stacked in there. “Your room is better. Remember, it’s the one that looks out over the sea.”
“Cool.” He grabbed up his duffle bag and backpack and clomped up the steep wooden stairs, whistling as he went.
“I’ll have some dinner ready in about twenty minutes,” she called after him. As she washed her hands, she gazed blankly out the kitchen window. Although it was black as ink out there, she could imagine the ocean not too far off. But with all traces of dusky light gone, she could only see her own reflection in the glass. She peered curiously at her image—surprised at how old and haggard she looked. So different from the girl she’d been during her last visit here. She pushed a strand of dark hair away from her forehead, staring with fascination at the older woman looking back at her. There were shadows beneath her dark brown eyes, and she knew the past two nights spent in uncomfortable motel beds hadn’t helped. Her long hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail might be low-maintenance, but it wasn’t very flattering. Plus, she’d taken a vacation from the “natural” makeup she usually wore. All added up to a forlorn-looking “elderly” woman who was actually only thirty-six. She pulled the faded gingham café curtains closed and turned away.
Releasing a weary sigh, she put away the groceries and started making a simple dinner. She might be tired, but at least they’d made it. Her biggest fear had been a breakdown in the Subaru or that one or more of her old tires would give out. But here they were—and the cottage was in better shape than she’d hoped for. With just a few improvements, some thinning, and fresh paint, she ought to be able to get a good price for it.
Wendy layered slices of bread with ham and cheese, then set an old cast-iron frying pan on the propane stove. Cautiously striking a match—and praying the big propane tank out back wasn’t empty—she turned the knob just like Gammi had taught her. To her relief, it soon fired up and the pan began to heat. She buttered the outside of the bread, then laid in three sandwiches—two for Jackson and one for her. While they sizzled, she sliced up some carrots and apples and put the teakettle on for tea.
This was nothing like the delectable dinners Gammi used to pack for their first night at the beach, but then they weren’t going to be eating out on the porch in the summer sunset either. Those days were gone, and everything was different now. Except for one pleasantly familiar thing. Despite her general tiredness and usual anxiety, Wendy felt that old sense of peace, a sensation she’d experienced each summer when spending time with her grandparents—that she was home . . . and safe.
Later in life, she’d felt like that with Edward. But it had evaporated when he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer four years ago. She’d tried to re-create the feeling with Jackson. She’d imagined they would find that place again. But it always seemed just out of reach. So this unexpected emotion caught her off guard. So much so that she grew slightly uncomfortable—she wasn’t quite sure how to handle the pleasant feeling.
“That bedroom is fantastic,” Jackson announced as he bounced into the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t want it, Mom?”
“No, I’d rather be down here.” Okay, this was partly a lie—she’d always loved her second-floor bedroom with its sloped ceiling and dormer window. But her protective-mother instincts felt Jackson was safer up there. Besides, she loved that he appreciated it.
“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll box up your stuff and bring it down.”
“Okay.” She tried to remember what she might’ve left here as a sixteen-year-old—hopefully nothing too embarrassing.
“That smells good.” Jackson pulled out a metal kitchen chair and sat down at the table. “I’m starved.”
“I made you two sandwiches.” She set his plate in front of him, followed by a tall glass of milk.
“Looks good.” He waited for her to join him, then they both bowed their heads and she prayed a quick blessing like she usually did before their evening meals.
“And bless this house,” Jackson said heartily. “And our new lives here too. Amen.” He grinned, then took a big bite of his sandwich.
Wendy forced a smile, focusing her attention on dipping her tea bag in hot water. She admired his enthusiasm but at the same time felt deceptive. Maybe this was her big moment, her chance to tell him the truth—to confess the real reason they were here.
“I checked the weather app on my phone,” he said between bites. “It’s supposed to be pretty nice for the next few days. Maybe we can go beachcombing tomorrow.”
She nodded as she chewed, reminding herself that this visit was twofold—part work and part vacation. Perhaps it was best to focus on the vacation bit first. After all, the cottage was in much better shape than she’d hoped. “I’d love to spend some time on the beach,” she told him. “But remind me to call a handyman first.” She explained about the floor in the bathroom. “So don’t go tromping around in there. You don’t want to fall through.”
“Maybe we can fix it ourselves,” Jackson said with confidence. “That’d probably save a bunch of money.”
“Oh, I doubt we can attack something that big all by ourselves.”
“But I’ve got Dad’s tools, and I can look for how-to help online.”
“I don’t think so, Jackson. That’s the only bathroom in the house. The best plan is to get someone in here—and get it fixed fast.” She looked around the kitchen, which was in need of a good scrub, new paint, and probably some new linoleum to make it more sellable. “But don’t worry, there will be plenty of other work for us to do in here. And don’t forget, we haven’t really seen the condition of the exterior yet. Not in daylight anyway. There’s probably more work out there.”
“Well, I want to help with everything, Mom. I think this place is totally awesome—even just like this. But it would be cool to make it even better.” He went for his second sandwich. “I can’t believe it’s really ours. Our very own house—and it comes with a great big ocean!”
Again, she felt the guilt . . . but didn’t want to burst his bubble. Not yet. “It was incredibly generous of Poppa to leave it to us.” She lifted her tea mug up like a toast. “Thank you, Poppa,” she said reverently. “And Gammi too.”
“Yes,” Jackson echoed, clicking his glass against the mug. “Thank you, Poppa and Gammi. We’ll take really, really good care of it.” He downed the remains of his milk, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I wish you’d had a chance to know them.” Wendy stood to clear the table.
“I feel like I do know them.” Jackson hopped up to help. “Or like I’m getting to know them. Just being here in this house—it’s like I can feel them here. Not like ghosts or anything weird or scary. But like we’re part of their family. It’s pretty cool, Mom.”
“You know, I can feel them too.” She rinsed a plate, feeling a mixture of sadness and comfort washing over her. “And I know they’re both really happy that we’re here.” She smiled at her son.
“Where’s the dishwasher?” Jackson asked.
“You’re looking at ’em.” She pointed to him and then herself.
He laughed. “Okay then.”
“But I’ll handle it tonight. You go finish unpacking and make up your bed with some fresh sheets. They should be in the laundry basket you just brought in.”
“Want me to put more wood on the fire first?” he calle
d from the living room.
“Yes, please! The wood-box is just outside the—”
“I already saw it, Mom.”
As she washed a turquoise dinner plate, she knew that some things, including these colorful Fiestaware dishes, would be going home to Cincinnati with them. Then, seeing that everything in the kitchen cupboards was coated with dust and grime, she decided to start washing everything. Poppa had never been much good at housekeeping, and guessing by the supply of paper plates and Styrofoam cups, he’d probably lived a fairly spartan life here at the cottage.
As she emptied the packed cupboards, she decided to do some thinning too, boxing up old worn items she wouldn’t want to take home or even use while here. She was just getting the dishes replaced in the freshly cleaned cabinets when Jackson returned.
“I got my stuff all put away, and I put the box with your things in that spare room,” he told her. “What’s next?”
She closed the last cupboard door. “I still need to unpack and change sheets . . . and do some sorting in the downstairs bedroom. You can just relax if you want.”
“I turned on that old TV,” Jackson said, “but it doesn’t get anything.”
“No, they never had cable. It was just for watching movies,” she explained. “Not that we ever did much of that, but Gammi had some old VHS movies.”
“Movies on tape?”
She nodded. “Definitely old-school.”
“Cool.”
“And did you see Poppa’s record player in the living room?”
“Like for vinyl?” Jackson’s eyes lit up.
“Yeah, it’s that massive wooden cabinet beneath the front window. It has an old turntable inside, as well as a radio. Poppa liked his music. He kept his vinyl records inside the stereo cabinet. I’ll bet they’re still there.”
“Epic cool. Can I play one of them now? I mean, if they’re there. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” She ruffled his thick dark hair. “You’re an old-soul man, Jackson. Your great-grandpa would be proud.”
“Well, wasn’t I named for him?”
She nodded. “Yep. Jackson was his last name.”
As she turned off the kitchen lights, she could hear strains of Dean Martin wafting through the cottage, so warm and cheerful and inviting . . . She almost expected to see Poppa and Gammi dancing past her, like they sometimes did on a warm summer evening after sharing a bottle of red wine and a good seafood dinner.
“That’s nice,” she told Jackson as she carried the laundry basket of linens into the downstairs bedroom. “Friendly.”
“I thought you’d like it.” He perused the albums, setting a few aside.
“After I get the bedroom cleared out a little and some clean sheets on, I could make us some popcorn,” she offered. “You know, to celebrate our first night here.”
“Sounds awesome.” He nodded.
Bracing herself for an onslaught of old memories, she was pleasantly surprised to discover her grandparents’ personal belongings had been completely cleared out of their bedroom. Only the bed and mattress, some sparse furnishings, and an attractive selection of shells remained. Was this the work of Mrs. Campbell? Or had Poppa done it? Mrs. Campbell had mentioned that he’d acted like he was getting the place ready for her. She wasn’t sure about that, but it was a relief not to sift through clothes and shoes and miscellaneous toiletries.
It didn’t take long to make up the bed and unpack her clothes. She was glad that she’d brought her own freshly laundered bedding from home. It would be a comfort to sleep on sweet-smelling sheets. Even though this had once been her grandparents’ room, she was surprised by how at home she felt after her things were put in place.
“All done.” She sniffed as she emerged from the bedroom, spying Jackson with his hands behind his back and a mysterious grin. “Did you make popcorn?”
He pulled a large bowl from behind him. “I found a hot-air popper.”
“Good for you.” She reached for a buttery handful. “Yum.”
“I also found a case of root beer on the back porch.” He sheepishly pointed to a couple of cans on the coffee table. “I know you’re not a fan of soda, but since we’re celebrating, I thought it’d be okay.”
“Sounds good to me.” She chuckled. “You know, root beer was Poppa’s favorite.”
So with the fire crackling and Dean Martin crooning in the background, she and Jackson feasted on popcorn and root beer—and for a brief moment Wendy could almost imagine living like this . . . always.
“This place is going to be so great at Christmastime.” Jackson laid another log on the fire. “So much better than our cheesy apartment.” He pointed to the big front window that looked toward the ocean. “I think we should put our Christmas tree right there.”
Wendy pursed her lips.
“Or maybe over there.” He pointed to the adjacent wall. “So we don’t block the ocean view. And we can’t get a little fake tree like last year. We’ll get a real tree from now on. One that reaches clear to the ceiling too. I’ll bet Maine has a great selection of Christmas trees.”
She set down her root beer, trying to think of a response—a way to subdue his newfound holiday enthusiasm. “Well, maybe we should focus on Thanksgiving first. After all, it’s just a few days away.” And so they talked about that some, discussing what they’d cook and who would do what until Wendy eventually noticed the time. “Wow, Jackson, it’s after ten. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I think I’ll turn in. I’d say you should too, but since it’s not a school night—”
“I wanna go to bed,” he agreed. “According to my phone, the low tide is at 5:12 tomorrow morning. That’s supposed to be the best time for beachcombing.”
She frowned. “Sorry, but I don’t plan to be up by then. Besides, it’ll still be dark.”
“I know. The sunrise isn’t until after seven. Maybe we could go then.”
“Great. It’s a date.” She went over to kiss his forehead. “Good night, Jackson. Thanks for all your help with everything.”
“Do we need to do anything about the fireplace?” he asked.
“I’ll just make sure the logs are pushed back.” She remembered how Poppa would do that. “And secure the fire screen in place.”
“All right.” He nodded. “G’night, Mom.”
Wendy felt slightly odd as she went about locking up the house, turning off the lights, checking the fireplace. Obviously, she’d been a “grown-up” for many years, but her last time here, she’d been the kid and her grandparents took care of such things. Finally, with only the orange glow of the fireplace embers for light, she stood in the center of the cozy room. Looking around, she released a slow, long sigh that was partly relief and partly frustration.
In a “perfect” world, she and Jackson could just remain here and make this cottage their home sweet home. In a “perfect” world she could find profitable employment in Seaside—year-round. But she knew there was no such thing as a perfect world. And she knew that not only did tiny Seaside lack corporate jobs in marketing firms like where she’d been employed these past seven years, the off-season was slim pickings for locals too. Jackson wasn’t the only one doing research. She’d scoured the local newspaper’s classified section online, as well as some job websites, only to learn it was hopeless.
As the head of her household and a responsible parent, Wendy needed a secure family-wage job that included insurance, vacation time, retirement benefits—a job that would help get them ahead and build up Jackson’s college fund. And that job did not exist in Seaside.
These were the hard facts of life, but not information she was ready to dispense to her optimistic son . . . not yet. In the case of their Seaside visit, what he did not know would not hurt him. Let him enjoy a blissful break for another week or so. The harsh wakeup call of cold reality would come soon enough. She had no choice—the beach cottage had to be sold. And despite Jackson’s dreams of Christmas by the sea, they would be long gone by then.
&n
bsp; four
WENDY FELT strangely energized the next morning, waking up even before the sun rose. She couldn’t remember when she’d slept so soundly. It was partly the result of exhaustion from the long days of driving and lousy nights in roadside motels, but it was also due to the ocean’s surf. She’d always loved the comforting sound that used to lull her to sleep as a child—so much so that she often slept with her bedroom window open so she could hear it even better. Of course, that had been in the summertime. No one in their right mind would want windows open right now.
She shivered as she turned on the bedroom wall heater. Then, with bare feet, she hurried to the living room, cranking that heater up too. Poppa’s insulation efforts and the installation of several wall heaters helped, but the cottage didn’t have central heating—and she’d forgotten Mrs. Campbell’s reminder to turn the heaters back on last night.
She was soon dressed and making a pot of coffee. She smiled as she poured water into the coffee maker—the same machine she’d sent Poppa for Christmas nearly fifteen years ago. It had been a duplicate wedding gift, but knowing how much Poppa loved a good cup of coffee, she knew he’d appreciate the regift. And judging by the brown-stained carafe—before she scrubbed it out—it’d been well used.
She was just cracking eggs into a bowl when Jackson came into the kitchen. Completely dressed, he looked bright and cheerful. “Want me to make another fire to warm it up some?” he asked.
She tried not to look overly doubtful. “Think you know how?”
“Yeah, I just did some research. It looks easy.”
“Great. I forgot to turn the heaters on before we went to bed. I hope you didn’t get too cold.”
“Nah, I was fine. It’s a lot warmer up there than down here.”
She nodded, remembering that heat rises. “We’ll have to check the wood supply today. There’s a woodshed out back, but I’m not sure Poppa kept it stocked in recent years. We might need to pace ourselves with our fires.”
By the time breakfast was ready, Jackson had a small fire going. “I’m impressed,” she told him as they sat next to it to eat. “I had no idea you were such a Boy Scout.”
A Christmas by the Sea Page 3
