Page 14 of In the Pursuit of Haven
It felt so right. We’d always belonged to each other.
And why would I torture myself with that marriage proposal and how I’d dragged him away from his blissful small town life in Salem? This trip was about Haven, nothing else. I tried to shake off these sentimental emotions tormenting me, even as I glided through the rocky shores and tied up my aunt’s boat just below the lighthouse. I jumped off the boat, carrying my heavy bag, feeling smaller than the child who’d first come to meet her auntie.
“Haven? Why now? Why did you leave when I needed you most?”
She wasn’t answering. Of course not. I was all alone. Taking the rocky pathway up the hill, I evaded the brush on the trek to the beautiful stretch of lawn that held a majestic view of the most iconic lighthouse and caretaker’s lodge ever. The lighthouse tower was called “Pa.” The shorter one named “Ma” was long gone. Haven had been in the middle of getting a fresh coat of white paint on Pa before she’d collapsed.
I headed to the keeper’s dwelling. It was a three-story American bungalow-style house separate from the lighthouse. Haven had painted it with the same paint though, and added a sage-green trim. The cozy house had a deep cellar and a creaky attic, and the porch had long since been covered to keep out the elements, so that it had become the breakfast nook.
It was more familiar to me than any of the homes I’d lived in at Boston.
The memories of visiting here every summer consumed me—picnics on the lawn, cleaning the lighthouse lens, leaning against the railings high above the world and watching the parade of boats sailing below us on the water while I dreamed of a future that was in no way realistic.
As someone caught up in history, I let myself get caught up in the memories of the past more than was good for me. Haven always said so. She was the least sentimental person I knew, and yet… her eyes always watered over with tears when I came around after being away for too long.
What I’d do for that greeting now!
Taking a deep breath, I hurried up the steps, and unlocking the creaking door, I stepped into my memories.
Haven had transformed the enclosed porch into a dining area with rocking chairs coated in brick-red paint. A weathered wooden table was nestled up against the windows. The ocean surrounded me on all sides. We’d had so many meals here where I’d hidden my veggies under my plate and devoured Haven’s famous buttered lobster rolls then argued over Jessie.
I called out to her cat as I pushed through the screen door into the kitchen. “Stu? Stu? Where’d you go?”
Cats had an uncanny ability to survive on their own for long periods of time. Bette Ann had been over a few times after the funeral to feed the cat and somehow the place was still standing. If I’d left Finn for even a day, that yellow Labrador would’ve eaten his way through the walls by now.
“Stu?”
No cat, but I found a half-eaten bowl of cat food near the dishwasher. That shiny appliance was the newest thing in this kitchen. Nothing was up to date, and I’d seriously wanted to get my hands on the place for a makeover—or at least paint over these mustard-yellow walls.
I found Stu waving his tail at me in the cozy sitting room. The Scottish Fold cat stared accusingly at me with his big, round yellow eyes, wondering why I wasn’t picking him up yet. “Hey, Stu!”
The boy reacted with ameowand bounded off the couch to get to me. Haven had found the cuddliest breed out there, and so while Stu had been able to survive alone on the island for a few days, he wanted to snuggle and end his days as a hermit.
Very un-catlike!
I picked up Stu, running my hands down his short, gray, almost blue fur. He was the softest cat I’d ever touched. Jessie would be sneezing for days if he attempted the same thing.
Moving past the wall of windows in the sitting room, I tried to see what I was getting myself into. A few boxes had been started by Bette Ann, with a lot more tissues wadded up against the wooden floors to show for her efforts. The room was as neat and organized as Haven was. She didn’t know what a TV was, at least that’s what she told me when I complained about it in my younger years. She was a reader, and her books crammed into shelves all around the house was proof of it. She didn’t do digital, either.
And I was expected to pack all those up! Going through Haven’s stuff would be exactly like my archivist work at the museum, like chipping away at The Lady’s paint and finding the original color underneath. What would I discover about Haven when I went through her things? As close as we were, she was almost more mysterious than that ancient ship’s figurehead.
She had never married, never mentioned any attachments—she’d always acted like she was content with her life, fulfilled even, and very busy. Everything in her home could qualify for an exhibit, at least one dedicated to the ’70s, but would anyone else see the value, except me?
Smoothing down Stu’s short fur, I went up the creaky, worn staircase to the bedrooms. Mine was always left from the skylight, hers was to the right. Going to her room and jumping on her bed while she was trying to read was just as natural as stumbling into my own bedroom late into the night, though now I faced her closed door.
It was never closed when I’d been here.
Bette Ann must’ve done it. Pushing open the flimsy tan door to a room painted in blue, I saw the lumpy bed was made. The side of the quilt was creased like she’d sat on the edge of it and had only escaped outside for a moment. This must’ve been just how she’d left this room before she’d gone out that day.
An empty box of chocolates rested on the side table. I really should’ve picked up some of those on my way over here. I needed some good endorphins to drown my sorrows, and I was in desperate need of a listening ear. If Haven was my second mom, then Bette Ann was my third.
And I was running out of shoulders to cry on.
Something familiar caught my eye. It was tucked into the wall of pictures Haven had tacked to her wall in a web of twine and clothespins. As I came closer with Stu, I saw that it was an invitation to my wedding. She’d kept it?
But she wasn’t sentimental! Sauce stains marked the edge like Haven had fished it out of the trash. I couldn’t believe she’d put it up.
Setting Stu down on the bed, I tugged the invitation from the clothespin, seeing Jessie and me on a boat, smiling brightly with our arms around each other. I was in white shorts almost covered by Jessie’s windbreaker that I’d stolen from him. He was bare armed in a short-sleeved t-shirt; he usually lost his coat when I was around, though at least this time, he hadn’t lost the shirt as well. The guy was a heater, even in the winter months, but we were trying to be classy for engagement photos—as classy as Jessie got. He had on the same worn jeans he always wore when he was out deep-sea fishing. The rugged growth on his chiseled jawline made him so handsome.
