Page 18 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
“Can we get a dog?”
We were sitting behind the cabin that evening, in the area my mother and I had called the ‘back yard,’ though it was just a bit of green space among the paved paths to the guest cottages. But it was where the brick fire pit was, as well as a few picnic tables and Adirondack chairs. We were sitting on two of the chairs, with plastic dinnerware on our laps, holding steak, grilled corn on the cob, and spinach and strawberry salad.
It was a lovely summer evening in the redwood forest. Already cool enough that the heat from the pit was a comfort.
It really hit me then, how beautiful this place is, and how over the years I’d forgotten the power of that beauty.
We’d arrived only two days earlier. It was too early yet to be through the ‘homecoming’ stage, and surely I had obstacles to face which hadn’t yet emerged. But a new voice had piped up in my head, and she wanted to know why the hell I’d stayed away so long.
The answer was obvious and took only two words: my mother. I hadn’t been so swept up in nostalgia that I’d forgotten how miserable I was when I’d lived here before. I’d left because I’d had to, and I’d stayed away for the same reason. My mother had died not even three years before, and I’d learned of it months thereafter.
My opportunity to reclaim a place I’d loved wasn’t much older than my return. I’d come back when I was able.
But in my years away, I had absolutely forgotten one thing: how much of this place I’d loved. Dear friends, good people, and a gorgeous slice of world. All of that had been swept away by my escape from one woman.
When Wyatt asked about a dog, I was drinking a beer from the six-pack I’d bought at the market, and I’m still impressed that I didn’t choke to death right there and then.
Micah was very allergic to pet dander—like, he got wheezy and puffy if we were in the back yard and the wind blew over from our next-door neighbor’s yard, where they had two German Shepherds—so the only pets we’d ever had were an ill-advised birthday gift of a ten-gallon tank and a few tetras when Wyatt turned ten. We’d had to replace the tetras a few times over the next few months, until we decided that Wyatt’s room was a fish-killing zone.
We’d gotten him the fish because he’d wanted a pet so badly, and we couldn’t get him the puppy and/or kitten he’d been begging for. He had not appreciated the fish. I’m not saying he set out to murder them with malice aforethought, but his motivation for taking care of the tank was not life-sustaining.
He’d stopped asking for pets after the fish debacle. That he was asking now suggested something big, and it caused me both relief and grief. It meant that he was looking ahead to a life without his father and realizing there were things he might havebecauseMicah was gone.
I strove to bury all that emotional turmoil and answer him as if it was just a simple question.
I’d always wanted a pet, too. I hadn’t grown up with any, either, but my mother wasn’t allergic. She simply didn’t like having to take care of anything. It didn’t matter what—pets, plants, cars, motels.
Daughters.
“I don’t know, bud. We’re not that far off the highway, and people drive that road a lot faster than they should. There’s no fence here, and I won’t chain a dog.”
“Could we put in a fence, just around our cabin, maybe? Or maybe a dog run?”
I gave him the respect to consider his question. “I think fencing is expensive, and we don’t have any extra money right now. We have to focus on fixing this place up, so we can decide what our future looks like. I’m worried, too, about a dog or a cat being in the way of all the work we have to do, and maybe getting hurt.” His sweet face had sagged with disappointment. I reached over and gave his bare knee a squeeze. His legs were already hairy like his dad’s. “But I’d really like a pet, too, so let’s start keeping an eye out at the rescue places, and do some research, so when we’re in a good place to have one, we’re ready to bring one home. Okay?”
His sigh was heavy and despondent, but he nodded. “I hate when you make sense.”
I laughed and gave his knee a little tickle before I let it go. “Then you must feel a lot of hate, because I am full of sense.”
“Go ahead and tell yourself that if it helps you get through your day.”
“You little twerp!” I told him with exaggerated offense. “You know, I had a surprise planned for you tonight, but I’m not so sure somebody so snarky deserves a surprise.”
“Is it a puppy?” he asked with an impudent smirk. “’Cause I deserve a puppy.”
I threw the wadded-up butcher paper at him.
SUNSET WAS APPROACHING, and that was part of my little surprise, so we rinsed the dishes and cooled the pit, but we left the rest of the cleanup for later. Then I told Wyatt to put his hiking boots on, get his waterproof slicker, and meet me at the car. When he complained that it was nearly dark and too late for a hike, I told him to shut up and mind his mother.
I therefore got a deeply skeptical and slightly grumpy teenager for a front-seat companion.
But about ten minutes later, when I turned west onto a narrow paved lane cut through the forest, Wyatt sat up higher in his seat. “Are we going to the beach?”
On the way to Bluster, we’d stopped at a couple of vista points and had lunch at one that had a little picnic spot overlooking the beach, but driving the U-Haul and towing the Golf had made it impossible for us to stop often or stay long when we found a place to stop. My son had seen the ocean for the first time in his life only a few days ago, and he still had not stepped foot on a beach. I meant to rectify that.
This night was pretty clear, with scattered clouds and no fog. Those were the exception, not the rule, around these parts. The sunset promised to be spectacular.
I parked in a lot overlooking Laguna Creek Beach. It’s a thoroughly developed park area, with lots of visitor services, but it was late enough that we were basically alone. There was one other car parked a few spaces down, but I didn’t see anybody around who might have arrived in it. They were probably down on the beach.
