“I’m so sorry,” I say, hugging her again.
This time, when she pulls away, her eyes are wet with tears. “Thirty-five years we were married, and we loved every minute of it. I hope you and your husband are as happy as we were.”
“Did we seem happy?” I say.
“You sure did. Is something wrong?” She searches my face.
“No, not exactly. I was interested in the place we stayed last time we were here together.”
“Gargoyle Cottage. Lovely cottage for honeymooners. You two arrived early summer of last year, I believe it was.”
“I’d like to see the cottage again if it’s okay with you.”
“Serendipity! Gargoyle Cottage is empty. We’re slow this time of year.” She grabs a key from the hook on the wall, pulls on a long coat, and leads me out the front door and along a path through the woods. The day is growing cold, a hint of winter wafting in. She leads me several yards away from the main house, to a secluded Victorian cottage on the bluff. “This may have been the servants’ quarters,” Waverly says, out of breath. “Originally.” The cottage is painted in solid blue and gold, with a double staircase climbing to a wraparound porch. Inside, the air smells fresh, the rooms furnished in ornate antiques, a four-poster bed from the 1800s taking up most of the bedroom.
“This is amazing,” I say.
“We take pride in our accommodations. I’ll leave you to look around. Just give me a holler if you want to book the room again.”
“Thank you. I will.”
She shuffles back along the path. As I stand in the center of the living room, I see Jacob on the couch, beckoning me. I curl up in his lap. He takes my hand in his, turns the wedding ring around on my finger. We’re finally here, he says. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?
I didn’t realize you were so romantic, I said. Why did we wait so long to come here?
Good question. I always wanted to. He touched my mouth with his thumb, parted my lips, ever so gently. A promise, a question, an invitation.
I drew a breath. He lifted me bodily, carried me across the threshold into the bedroom. We were unfettered here, free of obligations.
I shift my gaze away from the bedroom, and I see us in the afterglow, sharing pastries and coffee in the morning. Summer sunlight slants in from the east, a million sparkles on the ocean. That first morning here, life was perfect. But underneath my skin, a vague uneasiness grew. This would not last forever.
Your family house—does it have a view like this one? I said, parting the lace curtains.
Better, he said, coming up behind me. The view will take your breath away. As soon as the renters leave, and the cleaners get the place in shape, we’ll head up there, okay?
Renters. Now I remember. His family home on the bluff became an occasional vacation rental during the summer months, after his mother died. How many cold winter nights had the house stood empty, waiting to become a home again?
On the living room bookshelves, I find mostly classics, some mysteries, and a few romance novels left behind by previous guests. On a middle shelf, I find a row of printed cloth journals. Some are much older than others, with yellowed pages, loose binding in the spines. The journals are arranged in chronological order, in which guests praise Waverly’s hospitality, the tranquility, the ambience. We saw a pod of orcas passing Mystic Bay, one guest wrote. Two bald eagles circled overhead this morning. They landed on the fir tree at the bottom of the path. Another guest wrote, Try the Whale Tale restaurant. Yet another guest wrote, We were lucky the cottage wasn’t booked for the week. The ferry broke down. We were stuck here four extra days. Four perfect days.
I flip through the entries from last June, my heart rate increasing. What if I didn’t write in the journal at all? What if I left no record? But there it is. I recognize my confident handwriting, the cursive slanting to the right.
Our stay here has been idyllic. I can pretend my complicated city life doesn’t exist. Since we’ve been here, I’ve been able to focus on gratitude. I’m thankful for the wilderness, for the view, for my friends. I’m grateful for those who comfort me, for wonderful souls in my life. I’m grateful for the Gargoyle Cottage and Waverly’s hospitality. Thank you for having us.
Kyra
I don’t find another entry. What did I mean by “my complicated life”? My entry is maddeningly vague, but I wouldn’t have revealed secrets here, on paper, for the world to see. I try to read between the lines, but no magical, invisible ink comes to light.
Back at the front desk, I ring the bell, and Waverly huffs in from the back room. “How did you like it?”
“Brought back fond memories,” I say, only partly a lie.