I make my way to the Pacific Coast Highway, where the ocean stretches out in a white-capped platter of blue and gray. The cold, salt-scented breeze drifts into the interior of my car. It’s early afternoon, and the fog is fading away under the warmth of the sun.
By the time I find Twelve Oaks again, I’m filled with more emotions than I can untangle—nervousness, excitement, fear. I park at the gate and walk down the stretch of dirt road. A young man approaches me.
“I used to live here,” I explain after introducing myself. “I’m looking for North.”
“He’s working over at the farmer’s market,” the guy says. “You want to wait?”
My heart skips a beat. I hadn’t even known if North was still here.
“No, thanks. I’ll find him.”
I go back to downtown Santa Cruz and find a parking space not far from Pacific Avenue. Pedestrians stroll along the sidewalk. The farmer’s market is a sea of people and white tents, voices rising into the air, the sound of a steel band carried on the breeze.
I maneuver through the crowd, looking at the vendor signs. When I find the Twelve Oaks tent, I stop a distance away. My heart is pounding.
North is busy talking to a customer, pointing at a box of heirloom tomatoes. He looks almost the same—more gray in his hair and beard, a little heavier, but I swear he’s wearing the same jeans and T-shirt from ten years ago. And he still has a braid in his beard, tied with a little red ribbon.
I wait for the cluster of people to disperse before approaching the tent.
“Free samples of strawberries,” North says, gesturing to the bowls on the counter.
“Hi, North.”
He looks at me and blinks. For a second, I’m afraid he doesn’t remember me. Then that old, familiar grin breaks out through his beard.
“Get over here, Liv,” he says.
I go around the counter to hug him, tears stinging my eyes as his arms tighten around me in an embrace of pure warmth and affection. When we part, he holds my shoulders and looks at me, shaking his head.
“I’ll be damned. I thought I told you not to come back.”
“You did. But I’ve learned that sometimes it’s okay not to listen to people.”
He chuckles. “True enough. Hold on.”
He gestures to a couple of guys who are unpacking boxes from the truck and tells them to take care of things for a while. We get two iced coffees and find a place to sit away from the crowd.
“I’ve thought about you a lot,” I tell him. “Wanted to email or write, but I remembered what you said.”
“Yeah. I was glad that you moved on.” North tugs at the braid in his beard. “So tell me now.”
I tell him everything I did after I left Twelve Oaks ten years ago. Community college, working retail, transferring to the University of Wisconsin. Library sciences, literature, Jitter Beans, Mirror Lake, the Historical Museum. The Wonderland Café.
“When I was at the University of Wisconsin, I met a man who teaches medieval history,” I say. “He’s my husband now.”
“He’s a good guy?”
“The best.” My throat tightens with emotion. “He really knows how to love me.”
“Good.”
“How’s everything here?”
North tells me about the seed business, the changes in the commune, the people who have come and gone, their new expansion into making furniture and hammocks.
By the time we’re finished talking, the sun has started its descent and several of the farmer’s market vendors are packing up their stuff.
“You want to stay?” North asks.
Part of me does. I’d love to spend a few nights back at Twelve Oaks, enjoying the salty air, wandering the gardens, joining the group for dinner and the nightly campfire.
But I shake my head. “I booked a hotel room a few blocks from the beach.”
“What are you in town for?”
“To see you.”
“You came back just to see me?”
“You did so much for me, North. More than I can even explain.”
He shakes his head, looking away for an instant before gruffly patting my shoulder. “I didn’t do anything, Liv. You did.”
“I just wanted to tell you that everything turned out…” My throat closes over. “Everything turned out better than I could have imagined.”
“I’m really glad to know that.”
We throw our cups into the recycling bin and walk back to the Twelve Oaks tent. I help pack up the remaining vegetables, handmade soaps and lotions, while North and the other guys dismantle the tent.
When the truck is loaded up, I approach North and dig into my pocket. I pull out the necklace he gave me.
“Remember this?”
He takes it in his hand and nods. “Long time ago.”
“It helped me a lot. The reminder. It took me a long time to learn it was true, though.”
“At least you learned,” he says, putting the necklace back in my palm. “Some people never do. Always knew you were a good student.”
He pulls open the door of the truck and gestures to the passenger seat. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Thank you, North. For everything.”
“Great to see you again, Liv. You know where to find me.”
“Always.”
I take a step back and lift a hand in farewell. My heart fills with gratitude for this gruff, honest man who pointed me toward a road that led directly to now.
“When are you heading back?” North asks.
“Friday.”
“So soon, huh?”
“Yes.” I smile at him. “I have a life to live.”