Page 15 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
I’d prepared myself for a reception more emphatically negative than this, so I wasn’t yet dissuaded. “And I thought I’d come in and see how you’ve been.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m back in town. I’d like to be friends again, if we can figure that out, but at the least, I’d like not to be enemies.”
“You’re not an enemy. You’re not important enough to be an enemy.”
That was the first thing she’d said that I wasn’t ready for. That one felt like a direct hit. I didn’t know how to respond to it.
When I didn’t answer back immediately, Erin sighed. “So, this is a bar. People who come in here buy drinks. Are you buying a drink?”
While the tense moment called for some alcohol, I wasn’t going to drink in the middle of the afternoon, when my kid was home alone. Besides, Erin didn’t want me there, and I knew our problems weren’t going to get worked out over a pint of Guinness. At least not yet.
I stood up. “No, I’m not buying a drink. I just came in to say hi.”
Erin said nothing.
“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” I said.
Still nothing.
I started to turn toward the door, but then I thought of one more thing I wanted to say, so I turned back. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
She twitched a little but didn’t allow herself to reply. So I left things there.
There was time to try to sand down the edges of her anger. Bluster was a tiny town; we couldn’t avoid each other. Besides, Jessie was a nexus between us. If I stayed, it would be nigh impossible for Erin and I not to achieve at least a détente.
If I stayed.
EIGHT: Sparks
That encounter with Erin girded me for the market. I went through the doors shielded against whispers and recriminations.
But the shield was unnecessary.
The market itself was a charming surprise. The original IGA had had its charms, too, I suppose, if one is a fan of ancient, cracked linoleum and narrow aisles hemmed in by workaday shelves crammed full of boxes, cans, and jars. But I was wrong about the Whole Foods comparison. Instead of that hyper-stylized, do-gooder aesthetic, the Granary seemed more like giant pantry. The shelves were wood and finished with decorative moldings. Produce was arranged in crates and baskets. The aisle signs hanging from the ceiling were framed wood with painted lettering in a serif font. The floor was wood plank. And there were a lot of locally-sourced options mixed in with the name-brand, mass-produced stuff.
The ’café’ in the store name was more like a tiny coffee shop. A little counter in a front corner, with an array of coffeemaking equipment and a small case of baked goods. Three two-tops, of brightly painted wood, sat before the counter in a cluster. The coffee smelled great, so I got myself a cup to drink as I shopped. I didn’t know the girl in her late teens who made my macchiato, but her two long black braids and chin tattoo suggested she was Yurok.
In a major city, a market with such a ‘cottagecore’ aesthetic would have pricing to make Whole Foods seem like a discount grocery. But here, the prices seemed average—average for California, at least. I filled up one of their cute little shopping carts pretty quickly as I drank my delicious coffee.
And, though there were at least a dozen other shoppers, I hadn’t yet encountered anyone I knew—unless the years had aged us so much we didn’t recognize each other.
I was mostly through my serpentining tour of the store and standing before an impressive array of honey and honey-infused spreads as I tried to decide between the local honey brand in the adorable beehive-shaped jar or the local honey brand in the adorable bear-shaped jar, when someone carrying a large box came around the corner and almost ran into me.
We both gasped and jumped back at the same time.
The man holding the box said, “Oh. Excuse me, I’m sorry.”
He was in his twenties somewhere, I figured. Definitely younger than me. He had long, black, ruler-straight hair, dark eyes, and a tan complexion. Jessie had told me that the Greyfather family, citizens of the Yurok tribe, had bought the building not long after the IGA closed, so I figured I was looking at a Greyfather kid. I suppose it was just as likely that he was from another Yurok family and simply an employee, but my brain must have recognized something in him, because I immediately assumed Greyfather.
Those kids had been little when I lived here before. Mrs. Greyfather had worked as a housekeeper at the cottages, and I’d watched her boys from time to time, when she’d had to bring them to work and I was home. Very cool that from those humble roots (I guarantee my mother did not pay well), Mrs. Greyfather now owned an important town business.
I took a guess about who’d almost run into me. “Peter?”
He tilted his head and put on one of those uncertain smiles we use when we’re not sure how a conversation is going to go. “Yes. Do I know ...” His eyes narrowed, and then his smile settled naturally on his face. “Leonora! We heard you’re back!” He set the box down and offered open arms. I stepped into them for a quick, warm hug.
I’d expected glares and recriminations from the people of Bluster, but, so far, the only person who’d been blatantly unhappy to see me had been Erin, who had good cause. Had I built up a baseless anxiety about how people felt about my disappearance? Had they understood more than I’d known about who my mother was and why I’d leave like that? Or had enough time passed that such things didn’t matter anymore?
