Page 57 of Whatever Will Be

“Me!”

“And me!”

I squeeze his arm. “Also me.”

“Good, you’re driving,” he says.

Once we get the girls’ booster seats in place, we take a minivan tour of Lake Stuart. It’s a pretty day, not quite warm enough to be without a sweater but pleasant with the promise of spring on the horizon. The lake itself glitters and I now appreciate its beauty in a way that didn’t occur to me when I was a child and simply took it for granted as an everyday landmark. Our hometown is pretty and will become even prettier in the spring when the tree leaves fill in and Rosebriar Hill transitions to a picture book shade of green.

Perhaps Caitlin is looking in the same direction I’m looking because she asks, “Can we go to Rosebriar?”

I shouldn’t be surprised that they know what Rosebriar is. Jules was bound to have mentioned our family’s old resort to them. Besides, there are still photo reminders and other souvenirs all over the house. Rosebriar is their history too, just like it was mine and Jules’s and Danny’s.

“Do you think we can get up there?” I ask Trent.

He nods. “Road was all clear when I drove up that way last month.”

“Okay.” I glance back at the girls. “But stay close. It’s falling apart and can be dangerous.”

“Mommy said that too when we went,” Mara says.

“Your mom took you up there?”

“Yup. We got a bunch of orange leaves and Mommy said if we put them in a book they’ll last longer so that’s what we did.”

If there were ‘orange leaves’ then then they must have visited in the fall. The pang in my heart is a familiar companion whenever I think of Jules and how she should be here with her girls. But I’ll keep a smile on my face because I don’t want to the twins to be sad whenever they think of their mother.

“Your Mommy was smart. Did you know that flowers can be pressed the same way? We’ll pick some flowers in the spring and give it a try.”

“I like dandelions,” says Mara.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to find dandelions.”

I’m so focused on driving toward the hill that I forget this is also the way to Cassini Brewery until I see the flat roof and the garish new sign on the building. It’s a small specialty brand, not distributed nationally, however sometimes I would see it sitting on store shelves in the city. I never bought any. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve never tasted Cassini Beer in my life.

Trent sits up straighter and glares at the building until we’ve passed it by. Then he seems to relax and turns around to tell the girls that he and their Uncle Danny used to come up to Rosebriar all the time when they were in high school.

“This is a PG-rated trip,” I joke and give him a look.

He fakes innocence. “Yeah, just like when Danny and I used to go up there. We’d hike, we’d have picnics, sometimes there would be campfire singalongs. Nothing remotely unwholesome.”

“We should have a picnic!” shouts Caitlin.

“Next time,” Trent promises her and slides me a grin that wreaks havoc on my ability to concentrate.

The road to Rosebriar is a little bumpy but clear, just as Trent said it would be. We pass an ancient sign still clinging to a wooden post and it’s a strange sight to me. I would compare it to visiting a fictional land that I’ve always heard stories about and have now discovered really exists.

We’re not the only ones who had the idea to visit Rosebriar today. The crunch of the minivan’s tires interrupts a teenage couple who were clearly in the middle of a private moment. They are still hastily rearranging their clothes when they emerge from the amphitheater and scamper toward the grey sedan parked beside the fallen recreation center. They throw us worried looks but slow down their frenzied exit when they realize we aren’t the cops or their parents or anyone else who might tattle. The boy flings a skinny arm around the girl’s shoulders and they laugh together.

“You both need to hold my hand,” I say to the girls. They nod as I unbuckle their seatbelts, my mind preoccupied with fears of rusty old nails and diseased rodents.

They each claim one of my hands while Trent waits at the edge of the crumbling amphitheater, staring into the distance and perhaps lost in memories of his own.

There’s a hushed tranquility about the place now but I can envision how it must have been back when the forsaken bungalows were occupied and well dressed families roamed the grounds, perhaps on their way to see Abigail Fisher perform at the amphitheater. My sudden shiver is not thanks to the cool air but something less tangible, a feeling of deep connection to the place where I stand.

I shake the feeling off. If I don’t watch it, I’ll start waxing poetic about long lost Rosebriar just like my father.

Trent joins us and Caitlin slips her free hand into his. We take a short walk around the immediate area and the girls plead to go inside the deserted buildings, but I have no faith in the integrity of the deteriorating structures.

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