Page 37 of The Words We Lost

My vision takes on a wide-lens approach to the scenery all around me as I pull onto Water Street. From behind the many Victorian-era houses edging the coast, the beach slips in and out of focus likean old filmstrip, and I feel my mind begin to drift again. How many summer days did the three of us navigate these roads together, with Cece’s face continually popping in between our two front seats while she threatened mutiny if Joel didn’t turn up the radio? There’d been so many late-night runs for salty fries and chocolate milkshakes. So many spontaneous day trips to Seattle when all our work schedules aligned. So many adventures lived out as fodder for Cece’s characters. It’s then I remember the last scene Joel read for us today—the one of us dancing to the soundtrack of nocturnal waves, of me huddled in close and speaking in teasing tones, of him running his fingers through my hair as I told him about my mother’s final days on earth.

I wrap my hands around the lower rim of the steering wheel in an all too familiar grip and imagine, for just a moment, that Joel’s hands are here, too. That the two of us are on our way to his aunt’s house to pick up Cece for a blackberry lemonade slush or a trip to the lighthouse after dark. But I keep the pages turning quickly in my mind, unwilling to settle on any one thought for too long.

After a quick stop at the market, I take the first right onto the Campbells’ property, where their gorgeously restored coral and teal Queen Anne mansion welcomes me with rows of apple blossom trees inside a white picket fence. I slow my speed to a crawl and veer off the main driveway to a short gravel alley that divides Stephen and Patti’s property from Wendy’s.

The way Wendy always told it, it wasn’t until after Stephen and Patti gifted her the small lot behind their grand home that she seriously considered a permanent move to Port Townsend. She’d been heartbroken after her husband left, but it was Cece she’d worried about most when the divorce was finalized. And it was also Cece she was willing to uproot her life in Nevada for—to create a new definition of home for them both.

The property they moved to, complete with a carriage house that was likely built for the caretakers of the mansion in the late 1800s, needed some massive TLC, much like the main house had when the Campbells first moved to the peninsula a decade prior. It hadtaken Wendy over a year and every dime she’d saved to restore it, but she’d done it. With finishing touches like scalloped shingles, gabled ends, and a wraparound porch, the vintage charm of this place more than makes up for the lack of closet space. As does her view of the Sound from her back gardens.

I tap the responsive gearshift into park and stare up at the miniature, multi-colored gingerbread house in front of me and will myself to cycle my breathing the way Dr. Rogers coached me during our last video call. Inhale for two, hold for two, exhale for two, hold for two. Repeat.

Though I stayed here with Wendy and Patti during Cece’s memorial weekend last September, it feels much, much longer than that. It’s as if those seventy-two hours of trance-like living never even happened. Only, they did. And unlike me, Wendy has remained here. In the same town, in the same house, in the same grief-stricken existence I refused.

I blink the somber thoughts away and exit the car on steady legs. Even as I walk the cobblestone path with grocery bags dangling from my arms, my efforts here today feel too little, too late. Then again, there’s nothing I’d ever be able to give Wendy that could equal what she’s given to me over the years.

I knock on her whimsical plum-colored door. And then knock again. It’s only after the fourth time, just when I’m about to reach for my phone and call her, that Wendy appears in the doorframe with a smile that looks far less wilted than it did Saturday night at the birthday dinner. She swipes a graying curl off her cheek and behind her ear. “Oh, Ingrid—sorry! I got caught up out back and only heard someone knocking when I came in for some water. I figured you’d use your key when you arrived.” She pulls me into a hug, and I don’t hesitate to hug her back, though my arms are still loaded with groceries. “I hope you haven’t been standing out here too long in the sun.”

I assure her I haven’t.

She welcomes me inside, and I’m struck by how right Joel is about the spark of light in her eyes. Whatever’s keeping Wendy so busy out back has brightened her entire countenance since last I saw her. Mychest warms at the pinch of peach in her cheeks and the way her mass of curls is pulled back by a sheer blue scarf that wraps the crown of her head and ties at the nape of her neck. She’s even donned an old smock I recognize from years past. A wave of anticipation flares at the prospect of assisting her in the revival of her garden.

“Here, let me take a couple of those bags from you. We can set them in the kitchen before I take you out back. But next time, just use your house key.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have it with me.” Truth is, my privileges to that key should be revoked.

She frowns slightly. “I’ll have Joel make a copy for you at the hardware store. I’ll send him a text as soon as we get settled.”

When she closes the door behind me, my throat’s too tight to respond as all I can picture is the card she pushed through the vent of my staff locker a week after she and Cece moved out of room 312. Inside the card’s fold was one of the hotel gift shop’s most popular anchor keychains with a single gold key attached to it and a simple note that read:

Our home is your home, Ingrid. You’re welcome to stay with us any time, for however long you need. No questions asked.

XoXo,

Wendy

At eighteen, I didn’t understand everything involved in a house renovation, but I definitely understood the desire for something solid and permanent under my feet. For something that didn’t leak during a heavy rain or howl in the night from the wind. For something that, no matter how many well-intentioned promises were made, would finally be more than a Plan B. What Wendy had extended to me out of love for her daughter that day was so much more than a house key. It was a home.

For a short stint of time, I got to experience potted plants sunbathingon window ledges, dinner leftovers stacked in plastic containers in a full fridge, and colorful shower curtains with matching bath mats and fuzzy hand towels. And a reserved shelf in the linen closet of blankets and pillows purchased just for me.

“I’ll admit, you’re only the third person I’ve shown my little project to. And I hope you’ll be honest with me—the way you’re honest with your authors.”

Her words make me a bit nervous as I think back to what Joel said in the library, about doing everything in my power to keep the light on. If being honest with Wendy meant dimming her light in any way, then I’d have to find a way around the truth, using my professional let-her-down-gently approach while still encouraging her efforts.

“Of course,” I say with a pop of optimism. “I hope you’ve saved some jobs for me to help with.”

She smiles and tips her head to lead me through a home that’s remained somewhat of a time capsule inside my mind. We head straight for the kitchen to deposit the groceries, but all the while my eyes travel over every surface at hyper speed, simultaneously taking note of the old and familiar as well as the new and different.

She stops to stare me straight in the eyes. “You can’t know how good it does my heart to have you here.”

“It does my heart good, too.”

We approach her back patio doors and I squint as the sun pours over me at such an angle that it’s impossible to see beyond the glare of the glass. But as soon as I step onto the shaded patio, my breath hitches, and I blink several times at the view in front of me.

There’s not a single garden bed to be found in her entire yard.

In their place is an assortment of outdoor furniture grouped by chairs, tables, benches, and stools. And next to them all are buckets of glittering, beach-tumbled ocean tears.

The sight is so arresting it takes me a minute to find my bearings.

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