Page 6 of Until the Storm Breaks
“Just handling some family business.”
“We should catch up sometime. Get coffee or something?” She leans against my truck. “Could be fun to hear about your Seattle life. Must be so different from here.”
Two years ago, I would have said yes. I would have taken her number and met for coffee that turned into drinks that turned into whatever she was imagining. It would have been easy and empty and exactly what she’d already scripted in her head—reconnecting with the now semi-famous writer from high school.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be around,” I say, hanging up the pump.
“Right. Your mom. I heard. I’m so sorry.” Her hand lands on my arm again and lingers this time. “If you need anything... or just want to talk...”
“I appreciate it.” I pull out my keys.
She steps back, wrapping her earbuds around her phone. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m usually at Harbor Coffee in the mornings.”
“Thanks. Take care, Jen.” I’m already getting in the truck.
In the rearview mirror, I watch her standing there, probably trying to figure out what went wrong. I pull out of the gas station, feeling like an ass. She didn’t deserve the brushoff.
But I’m not that guy anymore. Haven’t been for at least a year. The coffee that turns into drinks that turns into someone’s apartment. Maybe I never was, just pretended to be. And today I can’t even fake the small talk. Not with Mom’s urn three feet behind me.
My phone buzzes repeatedly from the cupholder. Work stuff, probably. My agent asking what I’m going to read at thebig lit conference at the end of the summer. My department chair at UW wondering about my fall schedule. All the things I’m not dealing with right now.
I silence it and drive toward the house, toward whatever comes next.
Turning onto the long dirt driveway that heads west toward the water, I see the house.
Oh, damn.
It rises from the overgrowth like something that’s been waiting too long—two stories of weathered cedar and deferred maintenance. The wraparound porch sags slightly to the left. Moss has claimed the north side of the roof in thick, green victory. What used to be Mom’s prized garden is now a tangle of blackberry vines and feral rhododendrons staging a hostile takeover.
The house looks tired. Exhausted, really. Half the shutters hang at wrong angles. Paint peeling in long strips. That particular sadness of a house that hasn’t been properly lived in for over a year, never recovering from the storm damage that drove Mom out.
But the cabins, which are connected by the addition Dad cobbled together when I was twelve, look maintained. Lived in.Loved, even. Mom’s porch light still glows warm, even though she’ll never need it again. Someone’s hung wind chimes from the connecting section.
I pull further into the driveway and that’s when I see her.
Maren Strand.
She’s on the porch of the left-hand cabin, sitting in a chair with a book open in her hands. Laila, Mom’s golden retriever, is stretched out beside her until my truck gets close. Then Lailastands, barking and tail wagging, but stays planted at Maren’s side as they both watch me approach.
Maren is mom’s longtime tenant who bought the bar seven years ago. We’ve had maybe five real conversations total, and three of those were about the weather. The few times I’ve been home in the last few years, she’s either been at work or I’ve been somewhere else entirely, even when I was here.
She’s prettier than I remembered. Blonde hair pulled back, a loose strand falling forward as she stands and sets the book aside.
I roll farther up the drive and cut the engine, nodding a hello through the windshield. Maren looks at me without waving, just watches me like I’m a storm system she’s been tracking on her weather app, trying to decide if I’m going to ruin her weekend plans.
I take my time grabbing my duffel from the passenger seat, anything to delay whatever awkward conversation we’re about to have. I get out of the truck with Mom’s urn and my bag, trying to look like I belong here.
I nod toward Laila as I kick the truck door closed. “She’s not supposed to have those.” The dog is currently gnawing on what looks like one of Mom’s good leather gardening gloves. The ones she special-ordered from a boutique in Seattle.
Maren’s eyes narrow. “She’s grieving.”
“She’s a dog.”Fuck. Why am I such an asshole today?
“Exactly. Dogs grieve differently.” She reaches down to pat Laila. “She needs something that smells like Susan. Taking comfort objects away just makes it worse.”
“That can’t be good for her?—”
“Right. Because you’re the expert on what Laila needs.” Her voice sharpens just a little. “When’s the last time you were even here?”
