Page 11 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
Jessie’s attention shifted to a point beyond my shoulder, and her expression became a shining, beatific smile. “Roman said you have a son. Look at that boy. He’s gorgeous!”
I turned and saw Wyatt standing near the corner of the cabin. I waved him up. “Come meet an old friend, bud.”
My gorgeous boy came forward. He wore a welcoming smile, but I saw a shadow of wariness in his blue eyes. I wondered if that was that same, vexing streak of protectiveness for me or if something else had him on alert.
Whatever it was, it didn’t temper his politeness. “Hi, I’m Wyatt,” he told Jessie, holding out his hand.
Jessie clasped it with both of hers. “Hello, Wyatt. I’m your Auntie Jessie.” She leaned in with an impish look. “I’m the fun aunt. We’ll talk.”
I laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, hell.”
The wariness faded from Wyatt’s eyes, and his grin sharpened. “You were friends with my mom in school, I guess?”
Jessie sent me a quick, questioning look, and I knew she was surprised Wyatt hadn’t heard of her. But true to form, if she felt any hurt about that, she didn’t let it stick. “Bestfriends. Your mom and me, and our friend Erin, we were inseparable from before kindergarten all the way until your mom headed off on her grand adventure.”
The thing about Jessie? There was not a single atom of snark in her tone as she said that last bit. With a jolt like a thunderclap, I understood that my friend had thought of my leaving, and the years since then, exactly so: as if I were a hero on a quest and had finally returned.
Maybe there was even a little bit of truth to that version of the story.
Already charmed, Wyatt did his own impish lean and stage-whispered, “I bet you have lots of good stories.”
“Grade A Prime shit, my boy. I’ve got the Grade A Prime shit. Like I said, we’ll talk. Butnow”—with considerable panache, she pushed up the sleeves of her slouchy, tattered black sweater—“I am here to help. Point me in the direction of a project, fam.”
“Oh, Jess.” I laughed and hooked an arm over my friend’s neck. “You will come to regret this.”
“Never,” Jessie said.
I swallowed down the little stone that had lodged at the back of my throat. How much good I’d forgotten. How much life I’d lived around the misery that had filled this cabin.
How much love I’d known, despite a mother who couldn’t.
FIVE: Story Time
Jessie plopped on the sofa, which was now the beige IKEA sectional we’d carried in from the truck. I handed her a can of Coke and sat down beside her with a weary sigh.
Sitting on the floor before us, Wyatt worked on hooking up his Xbox.
It had taken most of the day, with an hour or so break for a run to the McDonald’s drive-thru for a late lunch, but we accomplished a lot in the main cabin. All the windows were unboarded, the truck was unloaded (and reloaded with crap for the dump) and most of the old furniture that we didn’t want for ourselves but maybe could find a use for was stacked more or less securely in the equipment shed. Having Jessie around had given me the strength to haul out a lot of old shit caked in crusty memories. Even my old bedroom—now Wyatt’s—had gotten an aggressive shoveling-through. My mother’s bedroom, which would become mine, was full of my stuff now, but I wasn’t quite ready to deal with the mental snake pit of cleaning out that woman’s most personal things. It was crowded in there at the moment.
There was still a lot to do before we’d be truly moved in, not to mention the repairs and updates and anything else we needed to do to get the place in actually decent shape, but our stuff was unloaded, and we had beds we could sleep on and furniture to sit on.
Jessie had rolled up her sleeves and been all in from the start.
“Thank you for the help,” I told my friend. Jessie responded with a nod and a lift of her soda can. I knocked it with my own.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Jessie assured me. “After twenty years, I’d’ve expected you to have a lot more shit.”
I shrugged. We’d had a lot more shit. Once. But the last year of our life hadn’t been conducive to having a lot of shit.
Perspicacious Jessie squinted at my non-answer. “Okay. You have got to have a helluva story, Len. I don’t know if you’re ready to tell it, but I’m ready to hear it, so I’m just gonna ask.” She glanced over at the television, where Wyatt worked away on his electronics. “Unless ...”
“Wyatt lived most of it with me,” I said. “He knows the story.”
Of course it didn’t surprise me that Jessie wanted the gigantic blanks filled in. I’d expected it, and I’d spent time rehearsing the story in my head, figuring out which parts needed to be told and how the truth sound best. But I couldn’t imagine laying down the whole, years-long saga in one sitting. Besides, there were things about my early days away I’d feel comfortable telling Jessie but wouldn’t be thrilled for Wyatt to know.
I paused to think through my approach. Jessie let me, watching patiently.
“The whole story will take a lot more time, and probably more potent beverages than Coke. For now, I’ll start at the end.” Seeing Wyatt’s head slightly turned and his body still as he focused on me rather than his project, I asked, “That okay, bud?”
