Page 53 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
I WAS MERELY CHAUFFEURon the drive; Wyatt and Bailey chatted nonstop. Bailey, who’d done ninth grade at Bendixen and was therefore the expert in the car, did most of the talking, explaining (or reminding; it was clear that they’d talked about some of this already) How Things Are Done at Bendixen High.
My phone chimed on the drive, alerting a text. The Golf was not a smart car, it did not talk to me or read my texts to me, so I ignored the alert and drove on.
We arrived at the school about ten minutes before first bell, and the place was packed. School buses in the bus lane. Parents’ cars lined up in the drop-off lane. Seniors with driving privileges zipping into the lot like they were pulling into the pit at Daytona. Mingled among it all was a legion of hormone-addled teens, moving like caffeinated zombies—hyper but totally indifferent to their surroundings, be it multi-ton school bus, crossover mom car, or tiny hatchback.
Bailey and Wyatt clambered out as soon as I brought our tiny hatchback to a full stop.
“Thanks, Leo!” Bailey called before she spun on her heel, ponytail flying, and studied the front of the building.
Before he closed the door, Wyatt leaned in and smiled at me. I smiled back.
Since seventh grade, Wyatt and I have had a drop-off schtick, where I tell him to “Have a day,” instead of “good day.” Thatstarted because seventh grade was hard. One day, when he was particularly bummed about having to go to school, I’d done the typical, “Love you, have a good day,” and he’d looked at me with an absolutely numb expression and said, “No.”
We’d had a long talk the night before about middle school and bullies and how to get through it all with your sanity and sense of self intact. I’d delivered all the encouraging platitudes and maternal advisements then. So that morning, I’d simply replied, “Okay, then, just have a day, and then I’ll be back and it’ll be over.”
Just like that, “Have a day” became our thing. It means if it’s a good day, yay, but if it’snota good day, if it’s hard or unpleasant or just boring, okay. It’s just a day, and no day is longer than any other.
“Have a day, bud. I love you, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“I love you, Mom.”
He closed the door. I sat where I was and watched him stride toward the entrance of his new school, his new friend beside him, her ponytail swinging with every step.
One of them must have said something funny; Bailey bashed him with an affectionate shoulder and they both laughed.
That right there was a real thing. A good thing. My son making his life.
When I could no longer see them for the throng of adolescence in the way, I pulled from the drop-off line and went looking for a place to park at the back of the lot, so I could check my phone.
THE TEXT WAS FROM ROMAN; it said simply,Lunch today?
About two weeks had passed since the night I’d come back from the mayor’s office and had my little outburst. About two weeks since Roman and I had become serious—still movingslowly, but now moving toward something. We hadn’t discussed what that something up ahead might be, but I didn’t want to make big plans yet. I had enough on my plate as it was.
On that point, we’d talked a lot in the past two weeks about my options for the Sea-Mist. I’d finally collected Darryl Manfred’s stupid metal business card from Cottage 12, so I knew that his offer for the property was both insulting (less than half what Zillow said the property was worth) and seductive (less than half the value still had a fair number of zeroes).
I’d laid out some cash for a security system for the property, with cameras. That had been Roman’s idea, and it was a good one. If Manfred stepped foot on the property again while we were away, we’d know about it—and have evidence of it.
Altogether, it wasn’t looking great that I’d be able to keep the Sea-Mist. So not great that, despite my growing stack of estimates and bids for various necessary repairs, we’d stopped doing substantive work on the property; no point forking out more money to fix what we might well be about to lose.
However, it wasn’t a complete lost cause quite yet. Roman had called some contacts he had in the vast bureaucracy of California and learned that it was possible to negotiate an outstanding property tax balance to a lower amount—potentially significantly lower. I had an appointment with a state tax guy in a couple of days. It would require a full payment of the negotiated amount. No matter what that amount was it would still be a reach for me, but I was preemptively applying for loans to try to make that happen.
Four weeks left to figure this out. If I was lucky.
I texted Roman back.I can’t today. Jessie’s back, and I’m going to the gallery. But we’re a go for dinner, right?
He replied right away:Right, right. Forgot. Tell her I said hi. And of course! You want me to grab anything special for Wy’s first day?
You hunt up the dead animal for the grill. I will stop at Sprinkles to gather the sweets.
It’s a date, he returned, and then sent a wink emoji.
I laughed; Roman didn’t really do emojis, so when he decided one was appropriate, it always came in its own text, an afterthought.
I gave his wink a little heart reaction.
After a year and a half of being alone in the world, trying to shelter and protect my kid as our life shattered around us, it felt good to have someone in our corner again. Someone we could trust.
Nothing had really changed in Bluster but that. I was still very likely going to lose the Sea-Mist, and if that happened, I still wasn’t sure what I would do with my life. Where we would live, how I’d earn, what our life would be. I didn’t know. But I wasn’t alone.
